


x and y {a Dear Evan Hansen one-shot collection}

by the_mixed_up_files_of_me



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Romance, also I'm really bad at tagging forgive me, feel free to request a oneshot too!, it's hard to tag everything because every new oneshot is different, not all of these are romantic - Freeform, some are just character interactions I find interesting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-05 05:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_mixed_up_files_of_me/pseuds/the_mixed_up_files_of_me
Summary: every chapter features a new Dear Evan Hansen one-shot.





	1. my love, my drug {Connor x Alana}

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! I'm so sorry for the lack of writing lately; a lot has been going on. But I've decided to make a collection of Dear Evan Hansen one-shots. I'll try to post a new one every week! The chapter summaries or titles will tell you which ship is featured and give you a snippet or plot, so you know what you're getting xD Thank you all for your support! Sending love to you all <3

There are few people who can see through Alana's well-preserved pretence of overachieving cheerfulness.

Evan does, of course. He understands what it's like to live as a character and not his true self. Not as though he ever will have the nerve to tell Alana this and sympathise with her. And Evan's life is in too much turmoil to focus on someone else's or take the time to care deeply about her.

And Jared suspects. Behind his glasses, he eyes her with a critical gaze, more often than she knows. He has not the time or the patience to pry further. A true observer and third party to her life. If someone else puts a dent in her steely facade, he is more than interested to see the results but he is well aware of the fact that he is not the person to do such a thing.

There is a distinct difference between her interactions with those two versus her interactions with Connor. Connor sees through her words, reads between the lines, listens for the unspoken. He's smart; she hates him for it because she knows how he abuses his mind for reckless highs. _A waste_ , she often thinks.

And Alana is left to wonder what he is like under his own character that he plays so well.

-

It's nothing formal. There is no spoken invitation, merely an indicative look across the cramped school hallway and she follows him outside and across the track field.

"Those things will kill you," she says when he lights a cigarette.

Connor blows smoke into the air. With his long legs, it's difficult to keep pace with him. Clutching her bag of books tightly to her chest, Alana goes with him behind the metal bleachers. It may as well be a million miles from school, with the sounds fading into the distance.

Connor drops his bag onto the ground; settling down beside it, he opens a book. Kneeling onto the ground as well, individual blades of grass dig deep into Alana's knees. Opening her own book, the seclusion envelops as them as well as silence.

It's a system, their meetings after school, one that works well for the two of them.

Silences to make up for the noise, quietness to cancel out the cacophony of the day.

Alana wonders what her fellow classmates would think of them spending most afternoons together like this. Surely they'd laugh, ask why she lets Connor fill up the empty space in her afternoons.

Sometimes, like this afternoon, she questions herself for it as well.

Not with regret, but rather with a self-actualising curiosity.

Watching him from the safety behind her book, Alana studies him attentively, more than she has before. She watches as he absently rubs his thumb and middle finger against each other as he reads. Notices how the pale autumn rays of sunshine filter through the locks of hair that frame his shadowed and angular features. How he bites on the inside of his cheek, occasionally lifting a hand to brush his rogue hair out of his eyes.  
  
Pressing her palms into the grass to support her reading position, Alana is now curious if people around her have ever taken the time to look past her surface and notice the small things that she does that sets her apart from the façade she struggles to maintain.

Time has passed, more than she anticipates; an alarm on her phone, the ones that so carefully plot out the details of her day, chirps at her from it's nestled place in her backpack. Connor, as if startled out of a fictional world, lifts his head suddenly. Alana silences the device and rises to her feet. Connor follows suit.

"Well…I'm going to go."

"You should do that."

Alana nods. Reaching down, she no sooner slings her heavy backpack over her one shoulder when Connor steps forward in a quick, jagged and jerky movement. One narrow hand takes hold of her upper arm and he pulls her forward a few paces to kiss her.

It's odd, in the moment. Alana had not imagined her first kiss to be behind the bleachers and definitely not by Connor Murphy of all people. It's a matter of seconds, but if feels far, far longer as Alana processes, her mind working in a thousand directions at once yet producing nothing.

A reaction to this does not register until his cool lips that taste faintly of mint gum leave her's. There's shock, of course. Surprise, naturally. Also something else, a warm tingle from her lips that races straight down her spine. His expression as he steps back and releases her is calm, unaffected.

"Have a nice night," he says, grabbing his ratty bag and striding back across the grassy track field towards the concrete parking lot.

Alana has never been faced with a situation that she does not have a quick response to before.

-

Anger.

That's the emotion she decides to settle on. There's enough to choose from, after all.

As she paces her room, recounting the event, she questions if she ever flirted with him or showed any indication of something other than…other than whatever their system was. And he seemed so nonchalant, as if he's done it or thought of it a million times before.

A warm flush saturates her cheeks as a flash of a thought asks her if he ever has thought of her like _that_ before. Alana dismisses at once, not permitting herself to even _go_ there.

Her bedroom isn't particularly large; a few paces and she's obligated to turn around. Across the carpet she walks, the pacing helping her to release the energy that's building inside of her so steadily.

This is complicated, this is messy emotions and Alana dislikes both of those things immensely. Especially when she isn't quite sure of her footing on a slippery, wobbly ground.

She's certain that she hates him for screwing things up.

At least, it's easier to let herself believe that. Pushing down her rouge imagination, Alana pauses her pacing to take a swallow from her water bottle, in attempt to wash away the taste of him that still lingers on her lips.

Alana enjoys solutions almost as much as she enjoys being in control of situations. Having neither a solution or control, Alana ignores her cell phone alarms, ignores her stack of homework, ignores her parents coming home from work.

Picking up a pencil, Alana pulls out a sheet of paper and decides to deduce Connor Murphy like a maths problem. Her pencil scribbles against the page with quick movements, head bent forward in focus.

 _Situation_ , she writes fervently, _an unusual turn of events with Connor. The most logical step forward that clears up any questions and doubts is…_ Her pencil taps rapidly before resuming her writing, _is to completely ignore him until any strange feelings between us completely go away._

Initially satisfied with the idea of her solution, Alana is suddenly aware of the fact that now she has to actually carry it out.

-

At first, there's no difference at all.

They avoid each other at school usually anyway; only now, Alana can feel the physical distance between them more acutely. The space between them is tangible to Alana but when she permits herself to look over at him once, he seems entirely relaxed and himself.

Skipping a few days of their afternoon escapes is not unusual either; Connor doesn't seem to notice or seek her out. Alana doesn't understand the twinge of disappointment in her chest at his apparent disinterest.

 _Maybe he kisses lots of girls, maybe this isn't a big deal to him_ , Alana thinks, staring at him across the library during study hour. The idea does not settle well with her; she is unable to shake it off for the rest of the day.

It takes a week before Connor does anything.

He doesn't approach her at school, their unwritten rule. Alana is home studying, enjoying her one private hour a day before her family comes home and yet again the tornado of her live resumes. There is a quick, repetitive knock on the door. Home alone and suddenly aware of that fact, Alana uses caution. She asks through the door, "Who is it?"

A familiar voice. "A figment of your imagination."

Alana hesitates, hand hovering over the handle before she unlocks the door and sees Connor on the other side. There's an expectant look on his face, head tilting a fraction.

"Are you lost, Connor?" she quips.

"Since I obviously am, I am so relieved that I've happened to stumble across your house," Connor replies, words painted heavily with broad strokes of sarcasm.

"Do you want to come inside?"

"Do you want me to?"

Alana doesn't breathe a word but opens the door further, enough for him to come inside. He brushes past her, his frame skimming against her's. He's never been to Alana's house before; never been invited, but Alana doubts that he ever really needed an invitation. He willingly follows Alana up the stairs into her bedroom as she shuts the door. Her bedroom seems so much smaller with him in it; his lanky legs cross the room and he leans against her window seat. Alana hovers awkwardly by the door before gravitating towards the desk and occupying herself by putting away her textbooks.

The inevitable gets asked; it was only a matter of time. "So, let's get it over with. Why are you ignoring me?"

Heat floods her face. She wonders if Connor can tell. Remaining as nonchalant as physically possible, Alana continues focusing on her books. "I'm not ignoring you."

"Don't be such a liar, Beck."

The word _liar_ makes Alana lift her head again but with a new expression. Incredulous, forgetting her own refusal to look him in the eyes, Alana straightens and asks him to repeat himself.

Connor does, without hesitation. "I said, 'don't be such a liar'."

"I'm not a liar," Alana retorts with heat. Every inch of her skin is prickling, tingling. The space between her shoulder blades aches; she wants to roll them, shake off this inescapable feeling.

Connor replies, "Yeah you are. Look at you."

Something about the way he says the last sentence digs deep, corroding any reservations and barriers that she's put up. Furious, Alana snaps back, "Oh, and you are somehow the next Mother Teresa?"

"At least I don't pretend to be someone I'm not."

"I. Don't. Lie."

"You don't lie," Connor repeats her words with distain. "Then tell me the truth, tell me why you aren't talking to me."

Her jaw begins to ache with how tight she has clenched her jaw. "That's my business and not yours."

Connor rolls his eyes and for the first time since this conversation started, she sees the flash of irritation in his eyes. "Was it because I kissed you?"

Before she can bite back the words, they spill out. She wants to say them as much as she wants to keep them in. "Maybe it is because of that. Why did you do that, why would you ever—"

Connor speaks over her. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because I actually don't hate you as much as I hate everyone else? Isn't that usually why people do that, Beck? You're the genius, why didn't you figure that out?"

"Because it's…it's too complicated, it's too much!" Alana's tone, once angry, shifts into something a little more fragile.

He gestures, his one hand lifting in a silent stop. "Chill. At least now I know." And without pausing or waiting for a response, he walks past her unmoving, unspeaking form. His footsteps echo down the hallway and the front door opens and closes as he leaves. It's strange, in the aftermath of the situation; Alana finds herself thinking about anything but what just happened. She stands there, completely motionless, wondering what time her parents will be home, how many pages she's behind in literature, if her phone has any charge left. It takes minutes at a time before the realisation of what just happened sinks in fully and begins to outweigh her routine thoughts.

_He likes me?_

Alana cannot process this fact with any clarity whatsoever. Inadvertently, he admitted it to her face.

However, he also sees through her façade and this overpowers any of the gentler thoughts that borderline vulnerability in her. No one really knows Alana, none even Connor; at least he tries, a little more than others do. But he guesses, makes a few estimations and sometimes they really do hit the mark close to home. So close, that it scares Alana. He knows she lies about who she is, to him it's obvious. It takes one to know one, after all. If he notices, then everyone else might pick up on it too…the idea is overwhelming to her. To hide behind a pretence and a lie is a far easier path to walk down than to stand alone and bare with nothing but herself and the truth.

-

Alana does not speak to him again the next day, the next week, or even the week after that. This lasts until she walks down one of the many endless hallways in the school when shouting reaches her along with the thrilled, gossiping buzz of her peers.

A fight broke out earlier, apparently. Initially unconcerned, Alana casually hears snippets of conversations about the aftermath of it. While she was in study hall an hour before, two boys had been roaming the hallways and supposedly, one punched the other for some reason that no one seems to know. Everyone is a highly unreliable source of information, Alana quickly realises; some, looking to sensationalise the issue, claim that there were three or more kids involved. Others, bored and too tired to deal with the idiocy of their peers, mention to Alana that it wasn't even that big of a deal; no one broke anything and worst seemed to be a split lip.

"Who fought who?" Alana shuts her locker, glancing at Sabrina Patel who immediately has an answer.

With an indulgent expression, she replies, "Connor Murphy got hit by—"

…and Alana hears Sabrina mention some other boy in her class but the names and words have all faded out the moment she said Connor's name. A cold, sick feeling settles into her stomach; _Connor could have been hurt…_

"Are you sure he's ok?"

Sabrina blinks, confused. "Last I heard, he's got an ice pack on his mouth in the nurse's office."

Murmuring some excuse, Alana finds herself to be walking away from Sabrina. It's mechanical, it's involuntary. Even if they'll never be on good terms again, she wants, needs, to know that he's alright and not lying to the nurse about it. She's seen him do that before; Alana walks quicker, her pace increasingly clipped.

The nurse lets her into the small room, hardly bigger than a closet, where a sink and cot are. Connor's back is to her as he runs the scratchy brown paper towel under the taps and holds it to his lips. Alana hangs back and watches as the nurse makes him lower it and studies his cracked lip a moment before leaving and allowing them the much needed privacy.

"That was stupid, Connor, to fight him."

Connor had a feeling she'd say this. Turning around, there's a minuscule hitch in her throat as she sees his face. His one eye is dark and swollen, his pale, gaunt face now arrayed with small nicks and scratches of crimson red blood. His lip drips blood onto the paper towel; it's unsightly and he looks thinner than usual. Alana's stomach twists and Connor offers a rueful look, as if he suspects as much.

"Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine. You didn't have to come here."

"I know that I didn't. I wanted to, though."

There's a pause. Then, Connor rallies himself to speak more. "I…I'm sorry about calling you a liar, it was out of turn." Apologies do not come easily to Connor, as with any sentiment. He struggles with it but once it's said aloud, his tense shoulders relax and the first barrier between them finally falters.

She picks her words with care. "I'd be lying now if I said that you were wrong."

Behind the paper towel, his lips twitch. "Takes one to know one."

"The truth is that I didn't know what to think after the…thing."

She doesn't have to explain or clarify; Connor nods slightly, knowingly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, that wasn't the intent—"

"I think I was more uncomfortable with the fact that I actually kind of liked it."

He doesn't have an external reaction to this; Alana wonders if there is an internal one that he's hiding under the surface. But the tension is gone; it's said aloud and even if it makes her nervous to say, it's finished and our of her control now. Alana's lips part, exhaling slowly. All is forgiven, all is well again, she tells herself. Tucking a stray stand of hair behind her ear, she shifts. Training her eyes onto the floor, she studies the linoleum tile, the way it's peeling at the corners, how unevenly it's laid…

When a pair of beat-up shoes come into her view.

Alana lifts her head; Connor is close, closing in the distance between them. His arm reaches forward, and when she thinks he's about to touch her, he reaches past her to grasp the door handle.

"You should go back to class," he says, opening it for her.

Alana's caught off guard; that was not what she expected, thought…hoped would happen when he had come closer. Her feet linger, holding her breath, she almost steps through the threshold to leave.

She stops. "Do you need a new towel for your mouth?"

He lowers the saturated paper towel a fraction; biding her time, Alana moves away from the door, shutting it again and takes the towel from him. Throwing it into the wire trash-bin, Alana pulls a new towel out of the receptacle and as she dampens it in the sink, she is aware of Connor's gaze never drifting away from her. Turning around, Alana offers it to him; he presses it to his split lip almost distractedly, keeping her locked into his stare. It's quiet; through the door, she hears the nurse calling Mrs. Murphy, the hollow sound of the footsteps of students, their conversations that press against the door. Almost coming in but staying shut away for now.

Until the bell rings for trigonometry class and the illusion of escapism is disintegrated at once.  
  
She knows better than to be late for class. "I guess I'll see you later?"

"Yeah. Later."

"Behind the bleachers?" Almost wishing for some more confirmation. A promise that he'll be there.

"Where else would you care to be, Miss Beck? Buckingham Palace?" His tone is light and so are his eyes, the dark shadows seem to lighten as well.

Her lips turn upwards, just enough to give away her amusement. And she brings herself to walk away. The chatter of the class is dim, the hours slip off of the clock far quicker than usual as she waits for the final bell to ring before she can stride across the track to him.

He'll be there, waiting for her with literature and bantering conversations; it's a promise he fully intends to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you liked this fic. If you have a one-shot request, just leave a comment Xx
> 
> For anyone who is interested, on my Spotify I've made a playlist of songs I listen to while writing. I'm always expanding it! ^.^ Music is really helpful for getting inspiration and I hope that maybe some of the songs can help you with your writing too! <3 Here's a link: {https://open.spotify.com/user/pixel_song/playlist/0BFLQwFWp7cNkEZJMgkMF3}


	2. heart of the storm {Evan x Zoe}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛It is a dark and stormy night.
> 
> Sort of.❜
> 
> (Fic request by Toomanyfandomss: “Could you do a one shot where Zoe and Evan are stuck inside during a thunder storm, and even though you’d think Evan would be the one afraid and Zoe would actually enjoy it, it’s the other way around and Evan has to just try and comfort zoe?”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you all so much for the support of this new collection! Feel free to send me any requests you have for a one-shot. Happy reading Xx

It is a dark and stormy night.

Sort of.

Dark clouds had rolled in as the afternoon progressed, threatening rain the entire evening. Finally, after hours of heavy humid air and hesitation, the clouds break and spill out rain in sheets illuminated by flashes of lightening.

Evan finds storms to be soothing; Nature's version of releasing tension, he prefers to think of them as. When storms end and everything is anew with brighter colours, it always serves as a visible reminder to him that every storm fades away and subtly, that comforts him.

He pays no attention to the sheets of water pouring against the window, as the sky thunders indignantly and persistently. Maybe if he were alone, there would be a small part of him on edge. Heidi is working the late shift, again, but her absence in the Hansen house tonight is temporarily filled by Zoe.

Doing homework together lacks as date potential, but it's become something of a habit and routine. Evan has started to forget what it's like to come home to an empty house, just how eerily silent it used to be with only himself for company.

At first, Evan suspected that Zoe merely pitied him going home by himself every day, but as the days ticked by, he began to see that she needs it as much as he does. Her figure has become a more permanent facet to the Hansen household, unannounced and entirely necessary.

Beside him at the kitchen table, Zoe fidgets. Fingers tracing the seams of her jeans, persistently reaching up to brush hair out of her face that has not fallen forward. With the strikes of lightening, her head lifts rapidly, eyes flickering towards the window.

Evan notices, of course he does. Biting the inside of his cheek, he questions if it would be speaking out of turn to ask her if the storm is heightening her nerves. Perhaps he's imagining it and she'll think he's ridiculous for even asking. He wants to speak, wants to ask but the words lodge into his throat, hesitating to be said aloud.

Above them, tree branches from the maple trees next to the house scrape against the roof, the spindly branches digging at the shingles. As if they are going to extend a gnarled arm into the house, Zoe's head snaps up so quickly that Evan wonders if she's going to have whiplash.

"Um, Zoe," he starts to say, still unsure.

She turns to him and now that he sees her wide eyes, he notices the anxiety prickling them. Evan, still hesitant pushes forward, picking his words carefully, "Are you…nervous about the storm?"

Zoe's stomach actively twists itself into a million knots. She parts her dry, chapped lips and manages a breathily laugh, trying to suppress the feeling in her stomach. At first prepared to deny his remark, she sucks in a slower breath and reminds herself that Evan, unlike most people in her life, _does_ legitimately care. "Sometimes, they do…freak me out a little."

Last time she told anyone that was when she was at summer camp five years before; it has been storming heavily and Zoe was terrified. Alone at camp with a group of her peers who were strangers and overbearing counselors, Zoe had tried to tell one of the girls whom she believed she was befriending.

Apparently, she hadn't been, because the girl had laughed in her face and told everyone immediately thereafter. Only babies are afraid of storms, the girl had said and a wide variety of cruel comments that compared Zoe to a baby were passed around.

Not that she ever considered or entertained the possibility that Evan would laugh in her face but the memories from that day at camp filter back through her mind as she stares at him and waits for any kind of reaction or response.

He stands up and offers his hand to her. Zoe takes it, her fingers entwining snugly with his, as he leads her quietly into the living room. He motions for her to sit on the sofa and she complies; reaching over her shoulder, he pulls the blanket resting on the back of the sofa off and places it over her shoulders. Sitting down beside her, still slightly timid, he lightly rests his hands on hers. They're warm and soft on her cool, slightly clammy skin.

"I used to be really freaked by storms until…probably last year," Evan recalls, his tone mild and lower than usual, "But then my mum told me about how storms are made and it turned out that it was really interesting and now I'm not as scared."

"What makes them so interesting?" Zoe wants to know, gaze leaving his eyes and darting back towards the windows as a brilliant flash of light floods the room. Evan leaves her side for a brief moment to close the curtains, dimming the storm outside.

Returning to her side, he says, "Well, the biggest clouds are usually caused from rising heat. Heat and electricity are kind of the heart of the storm. It usually takes a while to build up, so when it finally storms, it's a lot like nature's way of a fever breaking." He pauses, glances at her. "That was a really strange spiel, I'm sorry."

She can feel her lips twitch upwards. "No, that was a different perspective. A fever breaking…I never thought of that."

The whisper of a smile still hovers on her lips for a long moment as he holds her eyes with his own gaze until it fades completely at the sound of another crack of thunder that seems to shake the very bones of the house.

She doesn't remember when her fear of storms began, really. There had been no tragic event that sparked her fear, at no point was she ever in danger from one. As long as she can remember, there has always been something about the lack of control, the lack of ability to stop or prevent the storms that has unnerved her. Trying to keep her voice steady, she mentions this to Evan.

Evan has always been uncertain about touching Zoe; hand holding is one thing, embracing and kissing is something completely different. Never wanting to push it, always unsure if he's overstepping personal space, he hovers next to Zoe, wishing desperately than she can feel his reassurance through his fingertips that tightly enclose her's. _Oh_ , of course he wants to put his arms around her trembling form right now, kiss her and remind her in some unspoken and only felt way that she is with him and he'll do everything in his power to keep her safe. The urge burns at him, digs at him and the more fear he sees in her eyes, the worse the feeling intensifies.

Because Evan's silence is always attentive and easy to speak to, Zoe hears herself begin to tell him about the camp, about the humiliation and perhaps that's what made her dread dark skies ever since. He listens, nods occasionally and it isn't until she feels his grasp on her hand tighten that she sees the change in his expression. Something stronger than sympathy or empathy, something deeper than understanding or pity.

Forgetting himself and his own insecurities, Evan pulls her against him.

Zoe usually initiates everything in their relationship; dates, kissing, hugs, and all of the things in between. She suspects that Evan still thinks that dating her is still too good to be true, too fragile to truly exist and is terrified of making a misstep. She's so overcome by this sudden gesture, she doesn’t even hear the next crash of thunder.

Now that the first barrier has fractured and crumpled at their feet, Evan isn't afraid to let his hands drift to her hair, running through it with delicate fingers. His lips press against her forehead, her jawline, her mouth. Zoe moves closer, falling onto her back on the sofa and pulling him forward between her thighs, his warm body heating her's. The sounds of the storm feel further away than before, muffled by the sound of their breathing and movement.

Her lips eventually leave his, not without lingering as much as she can afford. A flash of light through the curtains startles her; she'd forgotten, for those blissfully long silken moments, that the storm even exists. Evan senses this. "Zoe, you're safe. It's ok, it can't hurt you."

"What if the roof falls in?" Zoe prompts, listening to the branches continue to scrape violently against the rooftop.

"Well, I'm sort of on top of you right now so that probably won't hurt you," Evan replies, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face.

Her lips twitch. "What if it floods?"

"We can build an Ark," Evan readily says.

Another crack of thunder that sends the entire house trembling yet again. "What if we get struck by lightning through the window?"

"I think I read online that sometimes people who get struck by lightning will start speaking with a brand new accent or even language. This might be the opportunity for you to get a British version of me."

This time, she laughs out loud, cheeks growing rosy. His humorous side is rarely ever shown and highly underestimated. "I'm quite happy with this version of you, thank you very much."

He smiles at her and with that, she can feel the unforgiving grip of tension finally begin to release on her heart and mind.

And maybe the storm continues, the lightning lights up the sky and electricity crackles throughout the air but for the clear and present moment, it may as well be a million worlds away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you liked this fic. If you have a one-shot request, just leave a comment Xx
> 
> For anyone who is interested, on my Spotify I've made a playlist of songs I listen to while writing. I'm always expanding it! ^.^ Music is really helpful for getting inspiration and I hope that maybe some of the songs can help you with your writing too! <3 Here's a link: {https://open.spotify.com/user/pixel_song/playlist/0BFLQwFWp7cNkEZJMgkMF3}


	3. because you're mine {Evan x Zoe}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛Everything is a black-and-white tangled and knotted blur around him.
> 
> Until suddenly Zoe is in vivid colours.❜
> 
> Fic request by Noonemournsthewicked: ”Could you maybe do one where Zoe is being overprotective of Evan for one reason or another?”
> 
> TW: description of bullying.

Florescent lights radiate off of the lockers as Evan trails down the hallway, weaving his way through the crowd of students that press hotly against him. There is nothing quite like a crowd to make someone feel entirely nonexistent in the universe, Evan knows this truth all too well.

He reaches his locker at last; fumbling with the latch, he doesn’t notice the shadow of Matt Holtzer come closer until Matt is inches away from him. Matt, the embodiment and physical manifestation of insecurity that inflates itself as jealous bullying, leans against Evan's locker and when Evan eventually brings himself to make eye contact, he sees the eyes of someone looking to spark trouble.

A sick feeling settles in Evan's stomach. With nowhere to go, he reaches for his backpack strap and he tugs at it as he waits for Matt to begin the verbal assault that is just _waiting_ to ensue.

It comes. "Written any new letters to yourself lately, Hansen? Any more creepy sex letters? Oh yeah, we all know that you do that."

How, _how_ do people know that? Schools are the worst place to bring a secret into; Evan isn't entirely surprised that people made some educated guesses, glimpsed him writing _Dear Evan Hansen_ over his shoulder and immediately leapt on the train towards something more exciting than the actual truth.

A tug at the strap, a flush that saturates his skin. "It's not a sex thing."

"Sure, Hansen," he says with disbelief. "Everyone believes the rumors about it, though. I heard that Sabrina Patel also knows about the rumor and now says that you're a sex freak and is telling people that."

"Who's a freak?" Jared's voice, familiar to Evan, washes over him as he approaches. Jarmed affords a glance at Matt, just one.

"Do you know that Evan writes letters to himself? Who does that?" There is _real_ malice in his laughter, _fake_ incredulous care.

Jared shrugs, not physically capable of caring less. "Good for him." Deciding to make an exit as quickly as he came, seeing that the drama is not of particular interest, he turns to leave. But not before making one attempt to wipe Matt's smug look off of his face. "Oh, Matt, tell your mom hi for me." He claps his hands. "And don't forget your sister, her as well."

Evan makes the mistake of finding some dim amusement from this.

Matt has already acquired Evan as a target and this is all he needs for fuel. After cursing loudly and with immense feeling at Jared, he turns his head to Evan and the moment that his eyes meet Evan's bemused ones, any trace of teasing is gone. Replaced by something far more heated and riled up.

It's a sea of people and it's difficult to keep eye contact with Matt through the pushing and shoving crowd of students.

"You think that's funny?"

"No, I—"

It starts with one shove. One hard shove, meant to teach Evan a lesson for laughing. Evan stumbles back, stunned and caught off-guard.

All it takes is one push. One glimpse of a fight and everyone pauses their activity. It's an audience and it's an opportunity to the notorious harassers in the school who join Matt and seem to form an impenetrable chain in front of Evan. His stomach twists, hard. For a moment, he wonders if he's going to vomit.

"I'm sorry," he says at once, in one pathetic attempt.

His apology falls on deaf ears, the ears that are highly selective in what they want to listen to. Evan's an ideal target, small and unable to fight back. A spark is lit and the group begin to fan the flames.

Is his lip bleeding now? Evan tastes blood, he's sure of it after one of the boys' fists meets his jaw. More students stop to watch. Evan tries to bolt, tries to run; one of them grabs his backpack. It slips off of his shoulder and Evan struggles to hold onto it as they try to get it.

"Maybe we'll find more sex letters in here," Matt says, trying to unzip it as Evan grasps with desperate hands to get a hold on it again.

A ripple of laughter from the spectators. Evan wonders where Jared went. His heart is hammering inside of his chest, each beat radiating his ribcage. A warm surge of adrenaline courses through his veins, enough to grasp his backpack back from them. Clutching it to his chest, he attempts to run again. A sharp kick to the shins disables him at once, the cold floor hitting his hands as he tumbles forward. One of the boys laughs, an unfeeling laugh that immediately sends a wave of panic into Evan. The boy's sneaker shoves against Evan's already crumpled form.

It's a blur by now, really. A blood-tasting, laughing blur.

"What's going on?" Evan thinks that he hears Alana's voice, followed by Zoe's as she echoes the question.

It's Jared who answers above the increasing, enthralled exclamations of the students. His voice is surprisingly panicked, not drenched in it's familiar impassive mannerisms. He manages some explanation; Evan doesn't hear it, it fades into the crowd. In too much pain to move or even try to bolt anymore, Evan's body feels numb, his mind feels numb, everything is entirely unfeeling and numb.

Everything is a black-and-white tangled and knotted blur around him.

Until suddenly Zoe is in vivid colours.

"Zoe, no," Jared dimly says in the crowd and in a swirling pause, Evan can see him reach out to stop Zoe. Alana's face, painted with an equally stunned expression, watches as Zoe shoves and shoulders her way towards the band of bullies.

"Look, it's Evan's little girlfriend," one of them says in something that assimilates a sneer.

Except there is no time for anyone to laugh or react to his comment before Zoe reaches forward and hits him, hard. This merits an immediate reaction, one that's incredibly enthusiastic.

"Oh, no good comeback for that one?" Zoe spits, eyes flashing brilliantly bright and angry. Staring into his face, she plunges on, "Don't touch Evan, don't talk to him, don't even breathe in his direction again or so help me, I will know and I will _find_ you and I will make your life a living hell for you."

Maybe there is a sharp-tongued insult waiting to spill out of Matt or one of his follower's mouths but something about the way she words it with such articulate intensity and complete truth makes them bite their tongues. Muttering some unsavoury names about her and Evan, they vanish into the crowd of students that have grown increasingly uninterested now that the fight has diminished and dissolved.

Turning, Zoe comes over to Evan's form on the ground and stoops beside him. Alana and Jared approach, hovering close.

"Alana, get the school nurse and Jared, call Evan's mother," Zoe directs with clearness that they do not even attempt to disobey. The blur, the black-and-white, it all vanishes as she bends her face over his as she rummages for a clean tissue in her backpack. Meeting his eyes and holding the tissue to his lip, she says, "Evan, how do you feel?"

There's several emotions going through Evan and he finds it difficult to settle on one and answer her with clarity. He stammers something about having had felt better than this. As she bends closer, the smooth fringe of her hair brushes against his skin; her eyes searchingly gaze into his.

"What even happened?" Zoe asks him and for the first time, he realises that she rushed to his rescue with no knowledge of anything that transpired. Willingly threw herself into the flames for him without even knowing what happened.

Evan draws in a breath and struggles to sit up. "It was nothing, really."

"Evan, you're bleeding. It wasn't, _isn't_ , nothing."

"It was stupid. Really, it was a stupid reason."

She's unconvinced. One of her hands settles onto his shoulder. He can feel the warm pressure through his thin shirt. "It's an awful thing to have happen, stupid reason or not. Those boys are the worst." A flash of righteous anger filters into her eyes.

Students walk by them; the hallway is full of them, all absorbed into their own universe and not taking the time to observe them on the linoleum floor. For one moment that hangs in total suspension, Evan wonders if anyone else even exists other than the two of them. Zoe's voice is the only thing he hears, not the rest of the voices that echo off of the metal lockers and she is the only person he's watching.

The bell rings, shrill and unforgivingly loud. Zoe glances down the hallway. "Is that your mother?"

Through the crowd, Evan tilts his head and sees his mother walking next to Jared who no doubt phoned her. He can already see her worried expression, her hands nervous and eyes searching for him in the crowd.

"That's her."

Zoe hesitates, a long pause that envelops them briefly. Reaching for her backpack, she regretfully murmurs, "I have to get to class. Are you sure you'll be alright with your mother here?"

Evan nods; Zoe exhales slowly, meeting his eyes again before leaning forward and pressing her lips onto his jawline that is already bruising. It's a brush, but enough to for him to feel his heart lodge itself into his throat and his skin to tingle where her lips were. She straightens, offering him a private smile and readjusting her backpack on her shoulders, she disappears into the crowd.

He doesn't see her glance over her shoulder back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you liked this fic. If you have a one-shot request, just leave a comment Xx
> 
> For anyone who is interested, on my Spotify I've made a playlist of songs I listen to while writing. I'm always expanding it! ^.^ Music is really helpful for getting inspiration and I hope that maybe some of the songs can help you with your writing too! <3 Here's a link: {https://open.spotify.com/user/pixel_song/playlist/0BFLQwFWp7cNkEZJMgkMF3}


	4. walk on {Evan x Jared}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛It's not as if Jared doesn't pity Evan.
> 
> Of course he does, in his own way.❜
> 
> (Fic request by Zeldonyx_Hangie_Skypotter: ”can you make a kleinsen (Evan x Jared) one please? you can do literately anything as long as its kleinsen! thanks!”

It's not as if Jared doesn't pity Evan.

Of course he does, in his own way.

Not as if he'd ever dare to tell Evan that. Sentiment, emotions and everything in between those is something that Jared steers far away from. It's messy. It's overly complicated. It's…too _intimate_. And frankly, it's just not something he's interested in.

So he quips remarks as he listens to Evan's story about falling out of the tree, although Jared subconsciously wonders if that's the full story. He's known Evan long enough to sense when he's wrapping something with gauzy words of pretended reassurance and facts.

When Evan asks Jared to sign his cast and Jared refuses, he doesn't mean for his words to be so blunt. As soon as they're spoken, he sees the flash of dismay in Evan's eyes and immediately Jared regrets his word choice. He almost acquiesces and signs it, when Connor approaches and the conversation takes a sharp turn away from Jared.

After leaving Evan and Connor standing there, Connor's gaunt face pierced with agitation after Jared's comment about his hair, Jared glances over his shoulder back at Evan.

-

And ever since then, it is all headed straight to hell.

Everything. Evan, the Connor Project, the Murphy's and himself.

It's more than a crushing blow to watch his only friend suddenly morph into something so unlike himself. Evan's quiet and soft spoken manner turns into swearing, outbursts, things that Jared is a total stranger to.

And for the first time, Jared permits himself to feel pity for Evan. Being third party to the entire teetering rise to the Connor Project, Jared questions why he even let himself be a part of this.

 _That's because you were lonely_ , a voice in the back of his mind reminds himself.

_Shut up._

_You were lonely and Evan wanted help and you didn't want to turn him down._

_SHUT UP!_

He doesn't know how long Evan can hold up the façade; it's _shaking_ , it's Evan starting to drown the middle of the ocean with nowhere to go and Jared is not unlike a person on the shore who doesn't know how to swim.

The tension, the slow burn of everything that will never last and never should is coalescing. Jared can practically hear the ticking in his head, the steady countdown before everything crashes down.

-

"I could tell everyone _everything_."

"Go ahead. Do it. Tell everyone how you helped write emails pretending to be a kid who killed himself."

Staring into Evan's eyes, any trace of friendliness, any trace of the Evan he thought that he knew so well is so heavily painted over with cold shades of crimson red anger and... _fear_.

They stand in Jared's bedroom, motionless for a long moment. Jared can't leave his own house to get away from Evan, no matter how much he wants to run away from everything; that would look as stupid as it would feel. So with his feet as grounded as a tree with roots deep into the Earth, he mutely looks at Evan with an emotion that he cannot find a source to.

This _can't_ be the same Evan that he grew up with.

Not the one who he used to walk home with from school every single day.

 _What if I'm to blame?_  questions the irrepressible thought again. _I was sarcastic and didn't sign that damn cast and should have spoken up or done something..._

_Shut up, shut up, shut up._

That's always how it goes, once everything falls down. The questions, the shifting blame, the one question mark that presses against the mind; _what if I'm to blame?_

All Jared can do is spit out a sharp expletive, conveying only half of how bitter he really feels.

Evan flinches and for a moment, he sees the warmth that Evan's eyes had previously been so empty of.

Evan turns and leaves Jared.

-

The aftermath is when the forgotten pieces get picked off of the ground and looked at again.

Their best, forgotten memories together are what Jared thinks about as the aftermath of the Connor Project washes over them like a tidal wave. It takes a while before he lets himself dwell on them; at first, all he can recall and hear is Evan's bitter words, his sharp edges. Eventually, more subdued memories seep in; Jared stops fighting them.

And he sees Evan's difference. Evan, the boy in three acts. The first was something broken. The second was something of a pretence, a masquerade. And the last, the last act is something steady, something built on a more stable foundation. Evan is no longer living in act one again, Jared notices, but a curious blend of all three.

Jared wonders if he plays a part in any one of these acts.

Evan wants to make amends but Jared is pleased to see that Evan is not going out of his way to impress Jared or beg for mercy. If Evan had, his fragile respect for Evan would have faltered entirely. But it's slow, it's subtle. It's glances and brief conversations and a quiet, mutual understanding that recovery will not and can not be rushed.

-

Jared and Evan walk home from school together again after four months of this.

The walk starts off quiet, only the crunching leaves beneath their feet and the occasional engine of a car that passes by them on the road. Jared listens to Evan's sneakers hit the pavement, one after the other and listens to the pattern that they form.

Finally, the silence breaks as they reach their familiar point between their own streets where they have to diverge from each other.

"Jared, I would apologise but that won't be enough now or ever." It's blunt but it's softly said.

Had he said this to Jared even a month ago, perhaps he would have snapped back in contempt, let his pent up anger over the situation spill over like an overflowing sink. This time, however, he listens to Evan speak and as he does, Jared realises just how much older they've become this year. So, _so_ much is different now. Looking at Evan closely, for the first time he does not see the pathetic little boy who gets knocked over in the sandbox, but rather someone on the cusp of the entirely new territory of adulthood and independence. It's a shock to Jared to see this and he wonders if he looks different too.

 _This year has changed so much_.

"Oh, one of these days everyone will move on," Jared says with levity, aiming for something more offhanded and casual, "It'll be like nothing ever happened."

"I doubt that."

"Hey, I'm still only talking to you because of car insurance. That hasn't changed."

And this time, Evan laughs because if these past months have taught him anything, it's how to read between the lines and listen for the unspoken. Adjusting his backpack on his shoulder, Evan's lips drift upwards into a fraction of a smile. "See you tomorrow, Jared."

"Sure. Tomorrow, Evan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you liked this fic. If you have a one-shot request, just leave a comment Xx
> 
> For anyone who is interested, on my Spotify I've made a playlist of songs I listen to while writing. I'm always expanding it! ^.^ Music is really helpful for getting inspiration and I hope that maybe some of the songs can help you with your writing too! <3 Here's a link: {https://open.spotify.com/user/pixel_song/playlist/0BFLQwFWp7cNkEZJMgkMF3}


	5. human {Connor x Alana}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛...Alana replies with honesty. "Rumours spread and turn into all sorts of crap. I overheard someone say that they think we're in love."
> 
> "Imagine that." His voice is dry.
> 
> Something in his tone makes her pause.❜
> 
> or: how Connor and Alana accidentally fall asleep together and the entire world seems to find out.
> 
> (This is for Broadway(Not)Beauty who requested another Connor x Alana fic! This is probably one of the sappiest fics I've ever written and I'm blaming PMS right now for whatever this fic even is XD I really hope you like it, lovely! Xx)
> 
> (Something really exciting and special happened! The extremely talented and kind SetoAngel01 drew fanart inspired by this chapter! It’s so incredible so please be sure to check it out! <33
> 
> http://setoangel01.tumblr.com/post/179733987506/prove-what-you-want-then-alana-retorts-hearing
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/setoangel01/art/Connor-x-Alana-Human-771124243 )

Going to parties is something that Alana Beck absolutely despises.

If her parents hadn't found out about Sabrina Patel throwing a party while her parents are notably gone on vacation, Alana never would have ended up here.

Standing in the corner with a partially soda, she eyes her fellow peers with displeasure. A hushed sigh escapes her lips. If her parents had not insisted, downright ordered, her to take a break from homework and behave her age for once.

Have fun, they said. Stay out as late as you want. Be a kid.

Alana is having anything but that dreaded word 'fun' and wants to go home.

It's loud, too loud. The music seems to rise from the floor; she can feel vibrations from the beat under her feet and against her back as she leans on the wall. Bringing the cold metal can to her lips, she finishes her soda and looks for a trash can. Despite everyone else throwing things onto the floor, Alana considers what a mess this house will be in a few hours and doesn't want to contribute to it. Feeling as though she is the only responsible one in the entire house that remembers there is school tomorrow, she brushes and shoulders her way through the compacted people to the kitchen.

It's blissfully cool in the kitchen, compared to the heat and pulse of the rest of the house. It's completely empty, aside from two people she vaguely recognises from the hallways at school, who are actively making out. They don't notice her; Alana, immediately uncomfortable, decides to find another way to dispose of her soda and starts to quietly back out of the kitchen.

When the door swings open and nearly knocks her over. Connor Murphy towers over her, hardly seeming to take notice as his eyes fix onto the couple.

"Yo," he says to them, "Go get a room or something. You both, out. Now."

Because Connor Murphy is a highly impressionable person, the couple gets to their feet at once but not without dropping a few salty comments as they brush past him out the door. Connor ignores them, waiting until they leave before he glances down at Alana. "Something wrong?" he asks her.

His question catches her off guard. "Uh, yeah. Fine. I just don't like the noise in there." She gestures a hand towards the party on the other side of the door, precariously closed off from them right now. Biting down on the inside of her cheek, she holds her tongue to keep from rambling from her teetering nerves. It's no wonder that Connor makes her nervous; he's an odd, off balanced assortment of emotions, words and thoughts. And she's always been at a loss on how to decrypt any of them. Evan now as his eyes, which always appear to vary through a spectrum of shades in every different lighting and angle, stare back into her's.

He nods slightly, holding her eye contact in his for a moment as if considering her thoughtfully before he replies, "I don't want to be here either."

"Well, now we share something in common," Alana says and tries to laugh; it's high and wavering. For a flash, Connor looks bemused, as if he suspects her edginess around him. His shadow unlinks from her's as he moves towards the refrigerator, reaching inside and retrieving a soda. She watches his quick, painted fingers crack it open and suppresses the urge to begin to speak to fill up the silence.

"I don't bite, you know." He brings the can to his lips. Glancing at her over the rim, a mischievous look fills his eyes that seems to close the distance between them. "Unless you're into that sort of thing, of course."

Oh _god_. A hot flush floods her cheeks, her mouth is dry and she doesn't know what to say. Alana Beck is rarely without something to say; years of debate club taught her how to think of quick answers. And now her lips part and nothing comes out for a long moment until she forces, "Oh, don't be ridiculous," as lightly as she can.

The corners of his lips twitch upwards. His eyes leave her's and glance at the door cutting them off from the party before switching back to her. "God, I hate these things."

"Parties?" she questions, relieved with the sudden conversation twist.

"It's just a bunch of hormonal, inebriated idiots who jump around to noise pollution."

"That's...descriptive."

"That's the point." He tilts his head a fraction. "You haven't had a drink in your life, have you?"

"I don't plan on starting."

"Smart. You'll turn out like one of us if you do."

 _One of us. What can he mean by that_ , she distantly wonders as she stands there, grappling with her scattered thoughts. It's strange, to just stand here and _talk_ to him. Of course she's spoken with Connor before, he's always seemed to show a minor interest in her, more so than anyone else at school. But generally, Connor doesn't talk to people, he barely looks twice at anyone at school and suddenly she's only a few feet away from him and he's curiously studying her. Something inside of her is tightening, her muscles growing ridged, stomach fluttering as she struggles to keep eye contact with him even though his gaze is so warmly intense that it burns.

"And that's a bad thing?"

He swallows, eyes her. "Would you call it a good thing?"

His flipping of the conversation back to her is sudden. She swiftly replies, "It depends, I'd say."

"Good answer. No wonder you're on the honour roll."

His narrow hand deftly crushes the can and he extends his other hand towards her. She stares at it and then realises that he's offering to take her empty soda. She had completely forgotten that was the reason she came in the kitchen in the first place. Before he can make a comment about the questioning hesitation, she hands it to him and he throws them into the trash bin.

"I've seen your essays. You're an excellent writer, you ought to be on the roll too," Alana remarks. He turns back around to face her, leaning back against the countertop. His long fingers drum against it in rhythmic patterns.

"Then people would expect something from me."

"You don't want that?"

He responds, his voice matter-of-fact, "I don't."

Curiosity runs deep. "Why not?"

He considers it a moment, shifting her words around in his mind for a long moment before even beginning to reply. Normally, he'd brush her off and lie, sarcastically quip a remark to silence her on the subject. But it's getting late and she's interesting to talk to; her perspective and his perspective are the opposite sides of the same coin. And perhaps, he's been waiting for someone to talk about it with after being entirely alone with it for so many years. "When people have expectations, they hate you when you screw up. If they don't expect anything from you, it's easier."

"Oh, please, you're so much smarter than that," Alana says without thinking, "You shouldn't limit yourself just because you may make a mistake at some point."

"Says the overachiever."

"Says the _under_ achiever."  
  
There's tension, humming and singing between them. Her skin is tingling, her head is buzzing. She wants more of whatever this heated bantering is, she wants...

.... _something_ that she can't quite place.

And the way he stares back into her eyes evaporates the air in her lungs and she can't tell if that's a pleasurable sensation or a frightening one. His palms push against the counter as he takes a couple steps closer, closing off the distance between them.

"Don't read into this too much," Connor murmurs, bending forward to lock her frame in the outline of his and kissing her, neither sweetly or chastely but with sudden feverishness, pressing deeply into her, kindling every single nerve in her body. She stands motionless for a long moment before reaching up for his face with hesitant hands. She doesn't touch people as a rule; her bare hands are light, only tentatively skimming her fingers on his skin. It's easier, more comfortable to just slip them through his hair, letting it tangle around her fingertips. The wall meets her back as they stumble back a few paces and he presses her against it. His teeth brush against her lower lip, tugging just delicately enough to send tingles racing down her spine and make her tighten her grip on him. She wishes that she can remember how to breathe; even Connor seems breathy as if someone touching him is just pushing him over the _edge_.

He breaks the kiss, drawing his lips away from her's. He didn't expect to be so debilitated by the sensation of her, didn't think it through...it's too intimate, it's too close. He wanted a cheap thrill, not whatever _this_ feeling is.

"Did I do something wrong?" Alana immediately wants to know, a hand quickly moving to readjust her slanted glasses.

"No." His reply is short and to the point. Tucking a stand of hair back, he can still feel her pressure on him. "I just don't want you to read anything into this. I don't want to—" he hesitates, almost flinching at the last part, "— _be_ with you or anything like that."

"You initiated it and I wasn't exactly making a marriage proposal right there," Alana replies, unable to hide her bewilderment by his shift in behaviour.

And for one brief, flickering moment of honesty, he says, "No, I just can't do this to you."

Gradually, slowly, she pieces together that he's just looking for a distraction. She was nearby. It could have been anybody. And at least he had the wherewithal to stop before any sort of godforsaken feelings could ever flare up on her side towards him.

Of course, she has no idea what he's thinking, what his side of the same coin is exactly.  
  
Suddenly extremely tired, she sits down at the nearest place, which is the floor. The tile is cold underneath her. Her head is buzzing again in the aftermath of the crashing and tumultuous emotional high; she just wants to close her eyes and shut the rest of the night out.

Connor looks only a trace of how sorry he really is, his usual impassive expression off centred. The more seconds slip off of the clock, the more he gazes down at her, the more he wishes that he can shake away his trembling fear of permitting himself to be vulnerable with her, to let himself been tuned into what it feels like to be touched as if you matter.

He can't bring himself to.

All he can do is join her on the floor, exhausted to the core.

In the moment, she is not even thinking about the kiss or Connor, but rather she stares up at the ceiling and the light that hangs from it, considering the rest of her night. Her parents let her take the bus here; _when is the next bus home?_ she absently wonders, glancing at the clock that reads midnight. There's mountains of homework at home, there is a full day of school tomorrow, there's so much to do...

Right now, all she really wants to do is just be.

And it's terrifying to her just how much she wants Connor to be the only person to be with her in this moment.

-

Pale rays of sunlight awaken her.

Completely disoriented, she lifts her head from Connor's lap and the sunlight seems to strike her straight in the chest.

_Oh my god._

_Oh my GOD._

She jolts upwards, every single memory of the night before filtering in fractured pieces; they'd talked a little for some reason, vague and tired words and comments that flowed one after the other. She had been so, so exhausted and past the point of logical thinking. She doesn't remember how it happened, how she happened to move closer to him and rest her head across his knees while his fingers had gradually, without even realising, traced the lightest of circles on her skin.

Connor, as if suddenly awake immediately shifts away from her, standing up. Before either of them can speak, Sabrina Patel who threw the party in the first place, comes stumbling into the kitchen with an obvious hangover.

"God, what a effing mess. My parents are going to kill me when they get home," Sabrina groans, moving toward the refrigerator. To get there, she has to traverse the scattered remains of the night before. Kicking a plastic cup aside, she opens the refrigerator and rummages for something to eat.

"I need to go," Alana blurts out and doesn't even look back at Connor; she can't bring herself to. This is too much to process right now. Not even stopping to grab her coat, she rushes out of Sabrina's house as though her life depends on it.

-

Her parents are naturally less than pleased with her for stumbling in the front door at six in the morning. They stare at her critically from the kitchen table as she feels as though she is making a walk of shame towards them.

"We were so worried until Sabrina said you were staying over," her mother tells her, "We said have fun, not disappear."

"I'm sorry," is all Alana can say without delving into everything else. Drawing in a breath, she gazes at her mother. "I have to get to school now."

"Did you even have fun?" Her father, unconcerned and amused asks.

"It was...yeah, fun, I guess."

Alana prays that her face is expressionless.

-

She doesn't understand why her classmates are eyeing her differently as she reaches the school, late and underprepared. Too tired to care, telling herself that she's imagining it, Alana focuses her effort on avoiding Connor throughout the day.

It's at lunch when the gossip finally circulates and reaches her.

It's Evan who finds her and tells her what's going on. Perhaps he recognised her confused face from across the crowded cafeteria.

Sliding next to her, he lowers his voice and says, "Alana, I think you should know that everyone is talking about you and Connor Murphy from Sabrina's party last night."

An immediate pang of panic. "What are they talking about?"

"Pretty much the whole school was at that party and pretty much everyone saw you sleeping with him in the kitchen. So naturally people are assuming that you two—"

" _Your point is made_ ," Alana loudly cuts in before he can say anything further. Evan offers her a quiet, sympathetic expression before Zoe approaches and takes his hand, leading him toward her table. It doesn't seem like she is paying attention to the gossip floating around, merely saying hello to Alana and not making any comment about her brother being found with Alana. Alana isn't surprised; Zoe always tends to be above the whispered drama in the school. Alana wishes that everyone else was; she is acutely aware of the stares and now that she knows the whispers are about her, they seem even more numerous.

The cafeteria is hot, too hot. Alana abandons her lunch entirely, no longer hungry, and pushes her way through everyone towards the door. Avoiding eye contact, avoiding meeting their stares.

-

She doesn't want to be the one that goes to Connor.

She'd rather anything but that.

And yet, there is a part of her that knows she can only shrink away from it for so long. The sooner handled, the sooner things can be dealt with effectively, she reasons. Her voice of reason is the only thing that kept her afloat at school for the entire day.

She stands at the doorstep of the Murphy house and brings herself to knock on his door. Cynthia Murphy answers, eyes brightening to see her.

"You're Alana Beck, right?"

"That's me. I'm here for Connor. Is he here?"

"He's in his room. Want me to call him down?"

"No, that's alright. Can I go up to him?"

Cynthia just seems relieved that Connor seems to have made friends with someone. She immediately steps aside, letting Alana inside. "He's the third door on the left."

Alana gratefully smiles at her. Keenly aware that she has to now ascend the stairs and actually complete her reason for being here, has to talk to him with as much logic as she can muster, she suddenly wants to turn around and go out the door.

But Cynthia is still standing at the base of the stairs and there is nowhere to run to, so Alana forces another smile for Cynthia and goes up the stairs to Connor's doorway.

She knocks.

Connor opens the door, no doubt expecting it to be Zoe or his mother; he pauses when he meets Alana's eyes.

"We need to talk." Alana is relieved to hear the logic in her voice, the brisk efficiency that is untouched by her tumultuous emotions.

He nods, letting her inside and then shutting the door behind her.

She stands in his bedroom, trying to not notice the small proximity of the room. It's a mess, his clothes strewn about, various odds and ends all underfoot and thrown haphazardly around. The shades are drawn, dimming the light in the room and everything smells oddly clean, like laundry detergent. Not what Alana expected and yet she's beginning to see that it's impossible to expect what Connor will do or say next.

"So I heard that your reputation is being dragged around," Connor says, cutting to the point. He stands, folding his long arms across his chest, looking both bemused and tired at the same time.

"The staring from everyone sucked today," Alana replies with honesty. "Rumours spread and turn into all sorts of crap. I overheard someone say that they think we're in love."

"Imagine that." His voice is dry.

Something in his tone makes her pause.

He continues calmly, "Whatever happened last night, that was a mistake. One that should never have even started in the first place."

"Kissing me was a mistake?" Alana's tone, once efficient, turns curious.

She doesn't know how much effort it takes for him to say, "Yes. It was."

Alana is stunned by how shocked she feels by him saying this. I wanted this. I came here for this. "I was a mistake," she repeats, as if testing the words on her tongue.

They stand motionless for a moment that hangs in a suspension. Connor wills himself to finish his sentence, to keep going, to send her away and put himself back into the safety of his impersonal bubble. It's the head versus the increasingly desperate heart. Maybe if he didn't kiss her, if he didn't feel within him a spark that no one else has ever ignited, then perhaps none of this would be happening.

But it is and he can't bring himself to finish his sentence.

"Is something else going on?" Alana wants to know, stepping closer. Connor runs his tongue across his lips, staring back into her eyes.

"No." This would be so much easier to say if she weren't standing so close to him.

"So you just don't want me? That's all? Weird thing to decide halfway during a kiss, isn't it?" Alana wants the clarification, wants to hear it said aloud and not have it merely exist in her imagination. This would all be easier if she could hear him say it. Then she could have righteous anger and leave; not this delicate balance of something that's hanging in the air between them and threatening to spill over at any moment. Her throat is dry as his eyes leave hers long enough to flicker down towards her lips for a fraction of a second.

His lips part, he starts to say something but his words are extinguished and he closes his mouth again. Alana can feel something twisting inside of her chest, something incredibly human and burning to come out. Adrenaline beginning to flood her head and veins, she is dangerously close to him.

"Prove what you want then," Alana retorts, hearing her own words and not even fully realising that their brashness is her own. She's too busy watching his eyes. "Kiss me once more and we can decide on this once and for all. That's the logical thing to do right now.

Connor stares at her for a moment, one moment that seems to be entirely separate from the rest of the world to Alana.

"Screw it," is his almost horse whisper before pulling her taut against his body, dipping forward to hold onto her tighter. His hands aren't idle; they caress and cradle her small figure, growing increasingly desperate and fervent. Her fingers tug at his waving curls, hating how much she wants more. His lips press hard against her's, so intensely that she grows entirely numb all over, just feeling and only tasting  _him_.

It's her turn to break the kiss this time. Sucking in a needed breath of air, her gaze is hot on him. "And what do you want?"

His chest is trembling beneath her hands, failing to catch his breath. The words catch in his throat, finally tumbling out in a slurred, "You."

She closes off the distance between them in another kiss, something far slower and gentler. For this one moment, she shows him what it's like to feel fragile and intimately human.

And he lets her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you liked this fic. If you have a one-shot request, just leave a comment Xx
> 
> For anyone who is interested, on my Spotify I've made a playlist of songs I listen to while writing. I'm always expanding it! ^.^ Music is really helpful for getting inspiration and I hope that maybe some of the songs can help you with your writing too! <3 Here's a link: {https://open.spotify.com/user/pixel_song/playlist/0BFLQwFWp7cNkEZJMgkMF3}


	6. bandage {Jared x Zoe}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛Jared is simultaneously surprised and unsurprised to see her.
> 
> It's ironic how they're one of the most integral parts of Evan's life and yet they've barely spoken until now.❜
> 
> alternatively: after Evan's confession, Zoe and Jared find their way each other.
> 
> (Fic request by Aggie ”I was wondering if I could request a fic that is Jared x Zoe? Maybe sometime after Good For You or something?“ Thank you for requesting! I chose to have this take place after Words Fail instead of Good For You. Hope that's ok! Xx)

She misses Evan.

Her head aches from sobbing, her eyes burning and face warm from both shed and unshed tears. Crying makes things worse, in her mind. As if were to accept a defeat of some kind.

_What did he ever take from you?_

The more she thinks about that, the more her head hurts.

It's an isolating experience, aside from a devastating one. Her parents are inconsolable; she can't go to them for strength or support or any sort of sympathy. There's no one to talk to, no one who she could bear to face.

It's late and she wants to make a bad choice and yet she also wants it to be completely out of her control. Blame her actions on someone else, _someone else made me do this_...She wants someone, _anyone_ , even if it's just for the present moment.

For a second, she considers Evan. It's a reflex more than a reaction; when she needed comfort before, she could find it in his soothing grasp and his gentle words...

Oh, _god_ she can envision herself in her shattered state, showing up at his doorstep and regretting every single second that they kiss but also wanting nothing more than that.

But she can't go to him because in the back of her mind is one clear voice of reason, her last one left and it's serving as a reminder of everything that has transpired. Of the mess that has managed to gather in seconds after Evan's confession of his lies. Had it only been a few hours ago that he cut his heart open and told the truth to them? It seems a lifetime.

And all of this, all of this battlefield inside of her mind is what joins together like an unsolvable puzzle and carries her towards the one person who possibly understands her right now.

-

Jared is simultaneously surprised and unsurprised to see her.

It's ironic how they're one of the most integral parts of Evan's life and yet they've barely spoken until now.

He can hear his mother offer for her to come inside; Zoe's high voice echoes in the hallway and up the stairs towards him. Within a moment, she appears in his bedroom doorway, waiting for an invitation inside. It's a wrong choice, a bad choice, a choice that is enriched in over complications and repercussions but it's too late for that now. This is what Zoe reasons and that is what Jared tells himself.

"Hello, Jared," she says and her voice sounds unnatural. Unlike her's entirely. She barely can recognise it. Jared's eyes flicker towards her from his desk where untouched homework remains. Nothing, not even the dullest and longest books can serve as any sort of distraction from the events of the day.

"You ok?"

"No." Short and to the point. Drenched in a misery that Jared can only begin to imagine and relate to. Zoe shuts the bedroom door and it's quiet as she moves closer to him.

Jared can tell where this is going; he's not ignorant. "Don't your parents...know where you are?" It's a random question, lamely said but it fills in a gap that is vanishing as she closes the distance between them.

"They're too upset to notice. At least they're talking to each other, that's the only good thing." Even saying _good thing_ feels redundant; as if there can possibly ever be a _good thing_ about any of this.

"Ah. Ok." Jared sets down his pencil and focuses on her from behind his glasses. Her fingers toy and fidget with the rows of bracelets that adorn her wrists. She's thinking, processing, weighing out her options and choices right now. There's a shine to her eyes, only partially giving away the simmering emotion that threatens to crack her trembling facade at any possible moment.

"I suppose I just didn't want to be alone tonight." Zoe finally says this and her voice cracks at the end, pitching just enough to twinge the pity that he has built for her.

And she steps forward to kiss him, hard and fierce, pressing and digging into him with a desperation that exceeds logic. Her hands grasp at his shirt tightly, as if trying to keep him from ever moving away from her, from leaving her right now like everyone else seems to have. It's overwhelming; all he can feel is _her_ and he doesn't know how to react other than to slowly and lightly touch her. Underneath his hand that comes to a rest on her back, he can feel the shuddering sobs that shake her shoulders until she is forced to break the kiss for a desperate breath of air. It's evaporated from her lungs entirely; still clinging to him, she struggles to catch her breath, finally the hot release of tears finally beginning to spill over.

Because in this moment, this brief moment, she knows she really doesn't want to kiss anyone other than Evan like that. Not now, not ever.

Jared knows this, he can read it on her face. Zoe's relationship with Evan, it was never flirtation or infatuation...she loved him, she still loves him.

It's an unshakeable truth that cannot be masked even by her own bottled rage.

"Zoe..."

"I'm sorry, Jared, this is so _effing_ stupid. I shouldn't have come here I just needed somebody and I know that you're going through this too so...so I just came here and hoped for something. I don't know what, I really don't know." Backing away, her glassy eyes raise slowly, meeting his and there is a quiet resolution in them. Resigned, almost. "I wish I knew, I do."

Having collected her shattered pieces that she'd scattered with her tears, Zoe dries her face, drawing in a soothing breath of air. Looking Jared more squarely in the eyes, she says, "If only everything could start again."

"Well, I've been told before there's a lot of if's in life. I suppose this is just another one to add to the list." Jared makes a ditch effort to be matter-of-fact; he fails. In the vague hope that she won't read between the lines, read between his own fragile state that is so carefully wrapped around with sarcasm, he shifts over to his bed and sits down on the edge of it.

Zoe's lips press together, her head tilts slightly. "Oh, Jared...you really are smart beyond your age but you are not wise." There's almost a wistful, forlorn echo in her voice that taints him with unprecedented sadness; she's right, of course she is and Jared gradually understands the hidden weight behind her words.

The carpet is soft under her feet as she takes a step forward toward him, just one, and gives him a chaste kiss so light that it's practically a breath. Still on the bed, he presses his fingers into the quilt and lets her without any reluctance. Unlike the kiss from moments before, this is divorced from romantic intent entirely; it falls into it's own separate category of the unspoken but acknowledged need for companionship that is a bandage over an open wound.

Temporary but healing.

"Thank you for letting me come over," she says.

He hesitates as her hand extends towards the door handle. "Do you need to go?"

With her back to him, he can't read her facial expression but her pause is heavy and significant enough. It's one, probably their first and only, mutual sensation and significant urge not to be alone right now.

The world can burn tomorrow, but tonight Zoe just wants to rest her aching soul and she doesn't have to question if Jared wants to as well.

The bed shifts as she quietly takes a place beside him on it. For a long moment, one that could be either seconds or minutes, her fingers fiddle with her bracelets and he listens to the clock.

There's so much that can be said, should be said, _needs_  to be said. For this time, however, they push it down and Zoe finally snaps the uncertain and silent hesitation by resting her head on his shoulder. Almost subconsciously, his arm tucks around her shoulders, warm against her cold frame. Not letting her go as they lay back on the soft mattress, it's an oasis of comfort after this day that seems to have no end. Her eyes close and that tight, burning tension of loneliness inside Jared unravels just enough to let him get a sense of relative peace. Her body presses against him more as she drops her head onto his chest; something she always used to do with Evan when they lied down together. Too exhausted to fight any possible feelings of resentful pain at those memories right now, she silently draws reassurance from the familiar sensation and gesture.

"Goodnight, Jared."

"You too, Zoe."

A bandage, that's exactly what it is.

_Temporary but healing._


	7. icy air {Multi, Gen}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛Bending forward, Jared gathers snow in his palms and hits Connor with it. Sighing with immense effect and feeling, Jared says, "Ah yes, screw maturity."
> 
> "Absolutely," Zoe agrees.❜
> 
> alternatively: the snow fight with them that we all deserve
> 
> (Fic request by Emily: ”Could you do one where the whole gang™️ Have a snowball fight??“ I really hope you like this and it's what you wanted! <3 I literally posted this at two in the morning so please forgive any possible grammar errors; if there are any, I'll fix them after I sleep XD)

It starts with a few flakes.

Hidden in the corner of the room, watching the rest of the house party unfold before him from a complete third-party perspective, Evan takes refuge in staring out the window. In the dark night sky, the silvery white flakes tumble down and accumulate in a drifting, wafting carpet.

Compared to the air around him that seems just _too_ warm, the sensation of snowflakes dotting and melting on his skin would be bliss.

He hears Zoe before she comes into sight. Standing behind him, glancing over his shoulder out the window, she remarks, "It's the first snowfall of the year."

Evan turns, briefly off-centred by her close proximity but immediately drawn to her mild smile. Parties are hardly her scene either; he gets the sense of that as she takes a place on the window seat beside him and gestures towards the party.

"Too much?"

"A little."

"Me too."

Folding her legs, Evan watches her hands lock together as she draws her knees to her chest. Maybe his eyes focus just a second too long on her myriads of bracelets that adorn her wrists because she notices his inquisitive look and the corners of her lips lift.

"I've always had a thing for bracelets, you know...kind of ironic that I got this snowflake one yesterday and now tonight it snows."

Evan's mouth is dry, filled with cotton and suppressed words. He pauses for a long sip of water from the plastic cup in his hands. To have Zoe inches away from him, conversing with him as if she's known him for years is sending his mind into overdrive; _don't mess this up, don't say something stupid..._

"I think Jared is about as thrilled as we are," Zoe murmurs, flicking her eyes towards him and Evan immediately sees Jared's unimpressed, impassive expression as he stands amid their heavily drinking peers. His phone is in his hands as he seems occupied with it, the universal signal of indifference at any social gathering.

Evan's eyes drift past Jared, past the sea of people, his gaze coming to a rest on the tallest person in the room. "I didn't know Connor is here."

"He tagged along. He likes to go to parties so he can stand against the wall and judge people all night. He says it's entertaining. And it looks like he has company."

One of Zoe's fingers extends and points towards Alana who Evan had not noticed until then. She's trying, making a ditch attempt, at getting into a political and social debate with one of their classmates standing near her. They give her a strange look, extend a bottle to her and when she refuses, they toss her one more particular glance and walk away. Connor unfolds one of his lanky arms, taps her shoulder and says something that they can't hear above the din of the crowd.

Two quiet observers, they watch as Jared, the socially inept boy that he is, continue to stand and make no effort to speak to anyone. Zoe tilts her head towards Evan.

"He's your friend?"

"Yes, no."

"Yes...no?" she repeats, eyebrows arching.

Evan, wondering why on earth he'd have even said that in front of Zoe, hastily moves to amend himself, "He's kind of just a family friend."

Zoe acknowledges this with a nod of her head. "Well, we ought to rescue him all the same, shouldn't we?"

There is a warmth to her eyes, sparkles in them that shine and dance like the snowflakes that are so thinly separated from them by a sheet of glass. " _Jared!_ "

He doesn't notice her. She repeats herself and finally he lifts his head from his phone long enough to see the two of them. Moving gradually towards them with the smooth certainty that only the truly insecure can, he glances away from them for a second at the snow that steadily accumulates.

"Oh," he says, almost as if surprised, "It's snowing."

From her seated position, Zoe looks up at him; the window, the drifting flakes and the glow of the lights across the street are reflected in his glasses. The reflection shifts as his head dips forward and he pulls out his phone again in another act of disinterest.

"What are you even doing?" Zoe wants to know.

"Playing solitaire. Because I don't have friends to text unless you count this nerd." As he speaks, his words are lightly spoken and dripping with sarcasm. A hand brushes against Evan's shoulder and Evan glances up at Jared's figure.

A voice is behind them, low and hinted with a fragile gravel. "Is this a new club or something?"

"Hello, Connor. Yes, that's exactly what this is. You'll fit in." Jared rolls his eyes and struggles not to have to tilt his head to look up at Connor; impressively and intimidatingly tall compared to Jared, it would feel entire humiliating to have to look _up_ at him.

"Everyone here is just trying to get drunk and it's boring," Alana groans, from her place just behind Connor. With her sharply observant gaze that is as quick and deft as an eagle swooping in on prey, her eyes lock upon Evan. "Interested in the fall of the Roman Empire, by any chance? It's more interesting than you think—"

"Beck, he'd rather step into moving traffic," Connor tells her, relieving Evan of having to formulate an answer about the Roman Empire on demand.

"But it's interesting," Alana protests. "What about you, Jared?"

"The only empire I know is from Star Wars," Jared replies, "I feel like there's a difference between what you find interesting and what everyone else does."

Zoe's attention has drifted as this conversation has unfolded around her, her stare going from Jared, to her brother, to Evan, to the window, in an invisible connect-the-dots puzzle. "I don't think we can drive home in this, Connor. I don't think that anyone can."

Any thoughts of the Roman Empire and the lack thereof dissipate with almost as much swiftness as the fall itself.

Uncontrollable concern washes over Evan. "Are we stuck here?" It's not claustrophobia but it's something akin to it; _why is Connor standing so close, why is Alana hovering, why is the music so loud, I can't stay here all night..._

A short glance at Evan, perhaps noticing the tremor of anxiety in his tone. Connor retorts to his sister, "What do you want to do, walk home?"

"Why not?" Zoe stands up, straightens her back, looks her brother in the face. "We can pick up our cars tomorrow. We'll walk Evan home too and anyone who cares to join us. We all live close. Plus, I like the snow, I'd rather enjoy a walk out in it tonight."

-

Jared and Alana decide to join them by the time the trio of brother, sister and Evan reach the bottom of the snow covered driveway of the party house.

"Not feeling the party scene, were you?" Connor turns to face them.

Alana lifts her eyes towards the sky. "Parties are an excellent way to discuss pressing social and political situations. It's a chance to make connections. Perhaps they'd have been more endeared to a topic about snow."

Connor continues to stare.

She relents. "Fine, I hate parties. All of them." Tucking her palms further into her pockets, she continues, "Satisfied?"

"Never wasn't."

A few feet ahead of them, Evan and Zoe's shoes crunch against the packed snow, leaving the first footprints in the unblemished sheet. Her breath clouds around her face, her cheeks rosy from the cold. It's impossible not to stare; her lips turn upwards into a soft smile as she stares up at the outpouring from the sky, the snowflakes melting on her skin and settling amid her brunette locks of hair. The golden streetlights cast their glow, her hair catching the light in a pattern of a halo around her face. With every step, the filtering, hazy halo from the lights shifts. Almost as if she's the art and the halo can just barely keep her in the frame.

He's so caught up in _her_ , he almost completely slips and falls. Her hand extends immediately, balancing him. "You ok?"

"Yeah, of course. Of course, it's just really slippery, that's all."

"It is," she agrees, "But the snow is so gorgeous. Don't you love it?" And she lifts her face to the sky again, drawing in a deep breath of the frigid air as if she's cleansing her entire soul. The halo from streetlights shifts again, putting her in the centre of the painting again.

"Yes, I do."

-

The streets are silent, every house spilling patches of light onto the snow in their front yards. The sidewalk isn't shovelled, the roads are outstretched before them in colourless, untouched blankets. It's well past their ankles by now as they wade through it.

And everything starts when Jared makes a comment about the Roman Empire with just enough teasing in his voice for Alana to give him a light shove.

"Break my glasses and I'll destroy you in court," Jared warns.

Connor says in a high tone, mimicking Alana with alarming likeness, "Oh, Jared baby, that's _so_ hot."

Alana stoops forward and thrusts a handful of snow at him but he hardly flinches. Retaliating, he throws more at her. Spinning around to face them with her back to the streetlights, shifting the halo again, Zoe smiles at them and gathers the white powder in her hands, throwing it at Jared.

"What was that for?"

"The Roman Empire," Zoe indulgently replies, turning back to Evan with a prim expression, elegantly lacing her arm through his. The friction of her arm, her cool breath on his cheeks, her gentle fragrance of lilac is more intoxicating than anything in those bottles back at the party.

Cold snow hits Zoe's shoulder. Spinning back around, Evan still tightly linked to her, she hits Jared right back with more snow. Alana's lips twitch, her eyes brightening and she throws more at him.

"I am not a walking target practice, people," Jared protests. Connor, beginning to enjoy this, tosses another handful of snow at him, the icy flakes scattering in the sudden contact with his fleece jacket. Bending forward, Jared gathers snow in his palms and hits Connor with it. Sighing with immense effect and feeling, Jared says, "Ah yes, screw maturity."

"Absolutely," Zoe agrees, letting Evan go and in her soft gloved hands, she gathers up more and throws it at Alana who responds with a uncharacteristically lighthearted smile and laugh.

Reappearing by the amused Evan's side, she draws up close to him, so close that he can feel her breath on his face again and see the snowflakes that have collected on her delicately curled eyelashes. A positively _wicked_ smile crosses her face and her one gloved hand extends swiftly to push snow into the folds of his scarf and collar of his jacket. Immediate laughter, the first genuine laughter that has escaped his throat in what feels like ages escapes and he wonders if she can see the sudden spark of happiness that's steadily escalating on his face.

He has no reason to wonder; she does and that look in his eyes is enough to make her inhale in a sudden cold breath of air and her heart to beat twice as swiftly in it's bony cage. The halo around her face from the lights is as brilliant as ever.

Connor interrupts whatever their moment in suspension was by joining with Alana and Jared to hit them both with snow at the same time. Their laughter wafts over.

"Alright Evan," Zoe announces, her hand resting on his forearm. "It's three against two. We're going to have to be quite a team."

 _Team_. Evan's longed for someone to use that word with him for a long time.

"Yes," he agrees, his fingertips meeting the snow at their feet and collecting it into a sphere. "A team."

-

And that warmth, the burning relief of laughter and smiling with a group of unlikely companions is enough to keep that smile on his face long after he steps through the front door into the cozy Hansen house.

"My god, you walked home alone? I was going to try to find a away to get you..."

"It's okay, don't worry. The Murphy siblings, Jared and Alana Beck were all walking home too so they walked with me here."

Heidi gives him a quick look over; she hasn't seen his cheeks rosy from laughter in what feels like forever. Startled by the stinging relief in her eyes, she smiles at him and braves his damp clothes by hugging him. Brushing off some of the extra snow, she readjusts into her maternal instincts. "Take a hot shower now, or you'll get pneumonia."

Evan complies, shedding his wet jacket. He makes it halfway up the stairs when she comes to the bottom of the stairwell. Looking up at him, he pauses as she asks with hope, "So you had fun?"

This time, he doesn't have to hesitate or think of a way to smudge over the reality of the situation. "I did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you liked this fic. If you have a one-shot request, just leave a comment Xx
> 
> For anyone who is interested, on my Spotify I've made a playlist of songs I listen to while writing. I'm always expanding it! ^.^ Music is really helpful for getting inspiration and I hope that maybe some of the songs can help you with your writing too! <3 Here's a link: {https://open.spotify.com/user/pixel_song/playlist/0BFLQwFWp7cNkEZJMgkMF3}


	8. literature & sympathy {Evan x Connor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛As a gift from the most unlikely benefactor, inked words and smooth pages unearth a different angle of Connor's ten percent.❜
> 
> (This actually wasn't requested. I've been wanting to write this for a while and I truly hope that you all like this! The books that I mention in this fic are really incredible and I totally suggest that you read them! <3 Xx}

Fumbling with the locker combination, Evan twists the numbers until the metal door swings open. Dropping his backpack off of his shoulders, he starts tucking his books inside the locker, lightening the heavy load.

His fingers brush against a smooth hardcover book, one that he doesn't bear the names of algebra and history. Turning it over, the spine of slim book fits in his palm neatly; _The Mysterious Edge of the Heroic World_. Narrowing his features, Evan studies the cover; flipping it open, the scent of ink and paper greets him. It almost erases the stale air of the school hallway. No one's name is scribbled on the cover. From the cracking sound of the binding, it would seem that it's almost entirely _new_.

Wondering where he may have picked up by accident, Evan turns a few pages before snapping it shut. At the end of a Friday, Evan is in no mood to go back to the lost and found. Almost about to shove it in his locker with the rest of his books, he hesitates for a fraction of a second. Reconsidering the book, turning it over a few times, tucks it under his arm and shuts the locker.

-

Connor had watched Evan get threatened earlier that day by the usual band of bullies that make their predatory circles through the school. Observing from a distance, he'd seen Evan's eyes shining with a mixture of fear and tears. Anyone with a shred of sympathy left in them would have felt pity for Evan there.

And underneath many layers of indifference, a single chord of empathy inside of Connor had been plucked.

Leaving the scene, he had gravitated back towards his locker, reaching in the back and unearthing a book that he always regards as one of his favourites and still finds consolation in during strenuous school days. Opening it up, Connor skimmed the pages. It was still as new as the day he bought it; no one cared for books better than Connor Murphy.

He had hesitated.

And then he made a choice.

Finding the page and quote that always impressed upon him the most, he pulled a pencil out of his patched, beat-up bag and drew a thin underline.

When Evan left his backpack unattended during study hour, Connor rested the book inside. Evan didn't seem to suspect that Connor had done this; when Connor brushed past him towards the door, Evan did not look twice.

-

Evan finds the underlined quote the next morning while reading it. The night before, he had decided to read it just because it was lonely without his mother home yet and words filled up the space between him and the empty house.

And now he finds himself growing more invested by each page.

Turning a page, his eyes stop at the underlined quote.

_"Ninety percent of who you are is invisible."_

_The previous owner must have underlined it_ , he thinks absently. And he finds himself going back to read it again, letting the words sink deeper. It's an interesting idea, every person being ninety percent invisible and Evan is left to wonder what his ten percent really shows. It's a reassurance, in a way, to Evan; that the bullies who pushed in upon him can try to expose and humiliate him. They can try to tear him apart because of his letters for therapy, his medication; yet they can never take his ninety percent away from him.

And what is everyone else's ten percent?

-

On Monday, he reads the last page in the cafeteria and shutting the back cover, is resigned to give it back to whomever owned it before.

Book in his hand, he asks Jared first, hoping that Jared will know and he won't have to ask anyone else. Jared peers at the book from behind his glasses before definitively shaking his head.

"Yeah, I've never seen anyone around here reading that."

Evan extinguishes his reply with a sigh of further resignation. Asking other people is the last thing he wants to do. _Maybe I can just leave it somewhere_...

Last time someone left a book unattended, _The Little Prince_ , one of the jocks had grabbed it started tearing out the pages and throwing it at people. Evan kept the page that was thrown at his head; sometimes he wishes that he had the whole rest of the book to read, because it's quite an interesting page.

Retreating into the study hall, Evan makes the decision to just bring it to lost and found; it's the easiest thing to do without having to go up to people and ask them if it's theirs. Leaving his backpack, Evan pulls the book out and starts towards the counter.

And for some reason he can't place, Evan throws a glance over his shoulder. Immediately his steps stop, realisation crossing his face in a mirror of a dark sky first touched by daylight. Connor's thin hand tucks something inside Evan's backpack, zipping it again in one swift motion. His long legs carry him across the hall as he disappears behind the bookshelves, as if he had never been there, never touched Evan's backpack at all.

There's no need to go to the counter, no need to return the book to anyone other than himself. As a gift from the most unlikely benefactor, inked words and smooth pages unearth a different angle of Connor's ten percent.

-

The details of Connor's motives are still vague around the edges to Evan.

But he does know that he is grateful and wants to thank Connor in some way.

 _A Separate Peace_ is the second gift from Connor. Too curious to resist, Evan quickly scans the book for any notes, any more underlines.

He finds two pencil marks; always pencil, always with a light hand, never letting a pen ruin the book. The first one pulls at the corners of his lips in amused understanding: _"As I said, this was my sarcastic summer. It was only long after that I recognized sarcasm as the protest of people who are weak."_

Evan finds himself thinking, _what a unique language Connor speaks, something between other people's words and his ten percent._

The other quote strikes a solemn pang through his chest and he pauses to look it over several more times before allowing the possibilities and meanings to absorb into his mind. _"I felt that I was not, never had been and never would be a living part of this overpoweringly solid and deeply meaningful world around me."_

-

After placing the second book aside, Evan takes out a pencil and pages through the first book to find the lines that sang off the page to him in a clear voice: _"Friendship is a combination of art and craft. The craft part is in knowing how to give and how to take. The art part is in knowing when, and the whole process only works when no one is keeping track."_

-

He leaves it for Connor when he spots Connor's ripped bag strewn across a library chair. Something stirs in his chest; community, perhaps, even connection. Something fragile and too pure to be defiled by being spoken aloud. Evan locks in inside of his mind and lets it rest there.

Evan gives it time before he returns _A Separate Peace_. During the time that he reads it, he notices Connor through the unusually clear and vivid lens that the underlined quotes had shown him. Evan finds himself flipping back to the quotes, using them to see through Connor with. Alternatives wash through Evan's mind; with the first quote, it seems far more like the reflection of someone who sees the humour in ugly truths, who sees the sweetness in the bitter irony. For the second...it seems almost like a secret, a confession of the lonely and lost.

Through words that are not his own, Connor said far more to Evan than he could have with his own words.

When Evan finishes the second book, he scours it for something to say to Connor. Leafing through it, searching desperately until the words shine from the page as if written just for Evan. Taking out his pencil, he presses it against the page.

-

After picking up his backpack later that day and reaching inside to discover another gift, The Little Prince, the complete book in pristine condition, Evan decides to summon his courage and bring _A Separate Peace_ to Connor personally.

He waits, biding his time, until he sees Connor stride towards his locker. Evan, book tightly in hand, approaches with hesitation and caution.

Connor turns and faces him, tall and gaunt and observant as ever. An expectant look is in his eyes as he stares down at Evan.

Evan licks his dry lips and finds himself staring in the direction of the linoleum flooring. Connor doesn't seem to mind so he says more to the floor than to Connor, "I want to give you this back...as a thank you."

Extending the book in front of him, Evan more or less shoves it into Connor's bony hands and retreats back into the sea of students, leaving Connor standing there with the book in hand.

Connor flips the book open, staring after Evan's figure as he goes back down the hallway to his own locker. It doesn't take Connor but a moment to find the quotation that Evan underlined.

_“What I mean is, I love winter, and when you really love something, then it loves you back, in whatever way it has to love."_

Connor lifts his head; from across the hallway Evan locks his combination and raises his own eyes to glance over at Connor. Connor holds fast to Evan's gaze from across the students who push around and past them.

What a mysterious edge the heroes of this world _do_ possess.


	9. essence of floating {Multi/Gen}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛Her eyes are drawn to the sky covered with rippling grey clouds and the dark branches of the trees that wave back at them in the cool breeze. The rest of the world is far away from them, the untouchable skaters on the lake. ❜
> 
> (This fic was requested by Fallinginaforest: “Could you do one where Alana, Jared, Evan, Zoe, and Connor go ice skating? I’ve been inspired by the videos that were on instagram a week or two ago :)” I really hope you like this! Xx)

As soon as the silver blades slice into the ice with a metallic hiss, Zoe's hand flings out to grasp a hold on Evan.

Turning her wide eyes to him, he gazes down at her. Snowflakes are fringing in her lashes, the apples of her cheeks glowing and rosy. "I've never done this before."

"You're doing just fine," Evan assures her. Her fingers press indents into his arm as she clutches tighter onto him.

Behind them, another set of blades skims the ice. "Oh god," says Connor, as inexperienced as his sister is but far more bold in his failing attempts to skate. His gaunt legs seem even longer suspended in ice skates; crossing in front of them both, Connor eyes Evan. "You're the only one who doesn't look like an idiot right now."

He's not wrong. Jared and Alana have barely risked even touching the ice. Evan, steady and surprisingly focused, carefully glides and guides Zoe. Ice skating had been a suggestion by his therapist; every winter, when the town park floods the soccer field and lets it freeze over, Evan religiously goes. The cold air, the smooth motions and exercise is more beneficial than Evan ever anticipated; most of all, he gets the muted pleasure of actually being _good_ at this.

Evan flashes Connor a quick smile. "You're a quick learner."

Connor's eyes reflect the slate sky above them. Shrugging his slim shoulders, he throws a glance over Evan's shoulder towards Alana who has navigated towards them. Her features are drawn tightly together with concentration as she moves with trepidation.

She wants to know as she comes closer, "Do you think that ice skating is a valuable hobby?"

"Why?"

"It might look good on a resume. Community work always looks good...maybe there is a class I can teach for troubled youths. That'll really push me ahead, once you throw in a few kids."

"Try not to fall first," Evan mildly suggests in his low tone. Alana barely hears him and she definitely doesn't decipher his gently hidden meaning.

She replies, "At least I'm out here. Jared is just standing there." With this, she slides away, jacket-clad arms still extended for balance.

Evan, Zoe and Connor turn collectively to see Jared standing on the ice with a vaguely bored, entirely impassive expression. He'll remain sedentary all day if he has to.

"I'm going to go annoy him until he moves." Connor pushes past them with surprising ease, skidding to a stop in front of Jared. The cool breeze blows away whatever they're saying; judging from Jared's resigned expression, Evan has a feeling that Connor is trying to rile him up. Amused, Evan turns back to Zoe.

Her back has straightened from it's tense slant forward. Her vicelike grip begins to loosen on his arm. "So you do this often?"

"Skating? Yeah, I like to. When I can."

"Thank you for being a wall to hold me up."

"Sure, I can be a wall whenever you need me to."

Her gaze lifts and she relaxes her body enough to offer him a smile. "You're a funny boy, Evan."

He murmurs a thank you and does not have to ask if it's a compliment. And she does not have to clarify for him; Alana and Jared want everything spelled out in vivid words, Zoe and Evan speak through the unspoken subtext. Same words, different meanings to each person.

This reflection is startled by the sound of Jared being dragged along the ice by Connor. Connor's hand is wrapped tightly around Jared's forearm. Protests follow them from Jared. Compared to Connor's brash boldness on his skates, Jared is more surefooted but takes things far slower.

"Let me go!"

"Shut up."

Jared turns his appeals to Evan as he and Connor come closer. Peering at him through his fogging glasses, Jared says, "Evan, make Connor stop dragging me around."

"I don't think I can make Connor do anything he doesn't want to do," Evan honestly replies.

Connor rubs the edge of his skate across the ice and silvery shavings of ice accumulate. "Good answer."

Jared rolls his eyes and lets Connor resume pulling him around, expletives and sarcastic comments drifting back and forth between them both in a verbal tennis match. Unbeknownst to even himself, Jared's beginning to enjoy the banter. From Connor's unusually good-natured gleam in his eyes, Jared suspects that Connor is starting to enjoy it as well.

Zoe's breath mists as she exhales slowly. Her eyes are drawn to the sky covered with rippling grey clouds and the dark branches of the trees that wave back at them in the cool breeze. The rest of the world is far away from them, the untouchable skaters on the lake. Parting her lips, she hesitates before speaking. "Thank you for taking us here today, Evan."

She doesn't have to tell him what brings on this sudden statement; he already suspected long before they even stepped on the ice. She's experiencing what he felt the first time he touched the ice; the essence of floating in gravity, far away from the aching troubles that exist again once on solid ground. Raising his eyes to observe Alana, he sees that her her unsteady balance has found a sense of centre. And Connor and Jared, forgetting their rifts at school, let go of their selfish prides long enough to take a moment to breathe and find an odd sense of community.

Zoe's hand drops from his arm to his palm. Lacing her fingers through his, she looks up at him with a smile and Evan, so caught up in what's around him, realises that he hasn't answered her yet.

"Any time."


	10. only us {Evan x Zoe}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛"I never thought that someone like you would want me," Evan's words tumble off of his tongue without his control.
> 
> Her lips slant upwards. "Well?"
> 
> "So I give you ten thousand reasons to not let me go." ❜
> 
> (This fic was requested by Onllyus who wanted me to write a 'novelisation' you might say, of the Only Us scene and song. I edited some of the lyrics so they'd have a better flow with dialogue and made a few adaptions. This was so much fun to write!
> 
> It's been a while since I've updated and I'm so sorry about that. This is a really busy time of year and I've been dealing with a lot of anxiety lately. Writing is extremely therapeutic so I'm really glad to be writing and updating again. As always, thank you all for your comments and support. I love you all so much! Xx)

"I was his best friend." _Best friend_. The words burn like acid in Evan's throat. Unworthy of the title of best friend to a boy he hardly knew, he wonders what Connor would do or say if he heard Evan say that now. If there were way for Connor to see what has unravelled rapidly, would he curse insults at Evan or somewhere understand?

Dwelling on this is something that Evan has taught out of himself. If he pauses long enough to consider what's really happening, he'll be struck as if the realisation is made of electricity.

Pushing forward, pushing down the thoughts that threaten to spill over, Evan adds, "And you are his sister. Think of how we'd look to everyone else."

Zoe runs her tongue over her lips, an odd expression slipping onto her features. Longing, perhaps. And something else, something buried that surfaces just enough for Evan to see. He averts his eyes, reeling from the expression. "So...when can we be more that?"

Standing still, he keeps his eyes directed toward the carpet and says nothing.

Searching, as if scanning through dozens of sentences that have accumulated inside of her, Zoe continues and chooses her words with specific care, "The thing is, everything has always been about Connor in my life. Everything's always about him. The whole world was made for Connor, the universe stops for Connor." Her jaw tenses as she swallows. "I guess I want something for me this time. The emails, the orchard, Connor...I just don't want our relationship to be about that. I just want—"

As her sentence breaks, Evan dares to look her in the eyes. There's vulnerability in her gaze, shining in her eyes.

"I just want you."

The floor drops under Evan's feet; he sways slightly and can feel his lips part to say something, anything. The constricting band around his chest throbs as he inhales deeply. "Me?"

"Yeah." A small smile. "You."

Closing off the proximity between them, her outline frames his. Misinterpreting his stunned silence as insecurity, her fingertips toy with the front of his cotton hoodie. Her hands are sinfully light; he feels their warm pressure through the decidedly thin material.

 _Tell her, tell her the truth. Do it now_ —

"You don't have to sell me on any reasons to want you, Evan. You're enough."

 _You're enough_. Her words radiate through him.

"What we have right now is _good_ ," she goes on, "I don't need to be reminded of everything that's happened. I don't want to be reminded and I don't need you to fix it for me. We can just...clear the slate. You and I can just start over." There's more earnestness in her voice, almost assimilating a plea. Lifting his eyes to meet her's, her soft lips curve upwards. Reaching towards him, pressing her smooth palm against his cheek, she says, "And I'll help you quiet all your anxieties. We can't compete with all that."

Part of him knows he should pull away; shutting it out, Evan closes his eyes for a flicker of second, long enough to put away the doubts, and leans his head into her gentle hand. The floral scent of her hand cream infuses his senses; it's almost as sweet as her, Evan reflects and absorbs the physical contact that she's sharing so eagerly with him.

Cool air touches his skin as she draws back her hand eventually. Taking a few strides to her bed, she draws in a breath and makes an offer. "What if it's you and me? Just us? What do you say?"

There's so much to say, so much that _can't_ be said, so much that _wants_ to be said. Perhaps if she weren't so intoxicating, if she weren't an impossibility that became possible for him, telling her the truth would be significantly easier.

 _Now is the perfect time_   _to tell_ —

"I never thought that someone like you would want me," Evan's words tumble off of his tongue without his control.

Her lips slant upwards. "Well?"

"So I give you ten thousand reasons to not let me go."

Ten thousand reasons. Evan could find more, he could find millions of reasons. There's no line he won't cross for her; he'd give her everything he has, he'd cross any ocean for her, give her his soul. He'd give her his heart too but she already owned his heart from the moment he first saw her draw stars onto the cuffs of her jeans. His star girl, the one star in the galaxy he can hold in his arms. From the first time she kissed him, he slipped into a love with her that he knows he'll never return from.

"But if you see me, if you like me for me and nothing else..."

 _Nothing else_. _Connor_. It was natural for Zoe to be drawn to Evan who seemed to have an endless supply of good memories about Connor. Hope twists inside of Evan; maybe she likes him or loves him even, not for the lies but for the person that he underneath it all. Of course he tries to show her who he really is when he can, smothered under the escalating lies. Doing so helps him to sleep at night. And he tries to show her with every kiss, every caress that it's Evan, not the lies that love her so desperately much.

That hope that she wants him pushes him forward. "Then that's all that I've ever wanted. More than you know."

There's no turning back now.

Evan comes closer to her and kneels in front of her. Letting his palms rest on her lap, her fingers lace through his like a complicated knot that only they know how to tie. "So it can be you and me. Only us."

"The rest of the world...everyone else can just fade away." Zoe's relief paints her face in broad strokes. Cradling his hands, she bends forward to brush her lips against them.

Watching her silky waves spill over her shoulders as she bends her head, Evan's skin is tingling, thoughts going numb. They're a castle built on lies, destined to tumble down as soon as the truth comes out. That painful knowledge drives him further, on a self destructive freight train that is wavering on the tracks. If only there is a way to cut off the buzzing electricity in his mind — "It's not impossible."

"Only because you're saying it's possible," Zoe murmurs with a tender expression that digs deeply into him. Shifting her slim body over on the bed, he quietly climbs onto the bed next to her. "What happened before won't matter, not anymore."

"It can fade away," Evan breathes, mirroring her previous words.

The house is silent, their methodical breathing the only exception. A hum saturates and simmers in the air between them. An energy as uncontrollable as their feelings pulsates, flaring and flickering like a candle burning down and breathing smoke. A warm flood of desire spills through Zoe's expression, glowing in her eyes as they meet Evan's.

"It's only us." She might be just referencing the empty house but Evan hears the heavier implications; implications are something that he's grown to listen for.

If he weren't caught up in her eyes, logic might have kicked in. A realisation of what he's doing.

It doesn't.

His lips touch her's; a breath of a kiss. Airy and light, tender and demonstrating only a fraction of how much he loves her. Zoe tastes sweet, like her cherry chapstick. He let's her make the next move, still clinging to that distant hesitation he always feels around her. Never wanting to push her boundaries, never wanting to mess up something that means so incredibly much to him. That hesitation is what holds the truth on his tongue; he'd rather do anything that hurt her and the truth will hurt her.

He can't bear that idea and now he's cornered.

His thoughts, wild and random are plunged into oblivion when she kisses him back, pushing her lips deeper against his with an aching, burning desire that ignites a wave of intoxication through him again. She's _safe_ , she is his safe space, far away from the dangerous and imbalanced thoughts that chase him.

Zoe has taught him what safe _feels like_.

Tucking her in his arms, he draws her closer and absorbs the heat of her body in his grasp. Wondering if she can feel his heartbeat, wildly pounding against it's cage, he follows her as she slowly lowers herself onto her back. Bending her knee against his waist, he feels her press closer still against him until they're tangled around each other. Lowering her hand from the nape of his neck, she searchingly reaches for his hand. Leaning over her, breaking the kiss and pressing his forehead against her's, he tucks back the locks of hair that have fallen into her face before taking her cool palm in his.

Evan always used to associate holding someone's hand as a display of ownership as if to say, _this person belongs to me_. Now as he breathes her in, trying to commit to memory just how every flick of colour sparkles in her eyes, he finally hears the silent language that entwined hands can speak. _Hold onto me, don't let me go_. Something that only the two of them can share, a language that only the two of them can hear.

As she said; the rest of the world and everyone in it has faded and fallen away into a dissolved and undefined mystery.

It's only them and they can hold their world in their hands.


	11. stringless {Connor x Alana}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛Alana doesn't know where it starts.
> 
> She hardly knows him, for starts. 
> 
> Except for their book report years ago, they've hardly glanced at each other twice since.❜

Alana doesn't know where it starts.

She hardly knows him, for starts. Except for their book report years ago, they've hardly glanced at each other twice since.

Until a school dance.

There are few times that Alana feels more lonely than when she is in a crowd of her peers. She'd lingered in the back of the room; no one initiated conversation with her and she is too familiar with that stinging feeling of invisibility to even notice it nagging at her edges. As she drank endless amounts of punch to appear distracted, a lanky figure had traversed the web of classmates and materialised next to her.

Picking at his nail polish, Connor didn't look over at her and she didn't look over at him. Not as though she wasn't curious about him and why he was there; occasionally, she cast him private glances. He looked older than she remembered him to look like; not externally, so much. His general presence, his energy; it was worn around the edges, tired. Reeling, Alana questioned if she looks older to him too.

This meditative silence lasted for the better part of the hour; finally, when Alana decided to move, he asked, "Who's going to hold up the wall with me if you leave?"

Off centred, she turned back around to him. "I didn't think you wanted the company."

"Well," he replied, "It's heavy on my own."

Alana had returned to the wall, pressed her shoulders against it in a resumed position and that's when the conversations began to tumble off their tongues.

-

_We're friends._

_No, scratch that._

Friendship is too intimate for either of them. It's something Alana wants, it's something that she wonders if Connor wants too but she can't ask him.

The rules were clearly set right from the outset. Nothing too personal, safe subjects only. A cheap thrill, a kiss to burn off the tension from the long day.

Absolutely no labels.

Nothing more, nothing less.

And it's understood on both sides.

-

Her sneakers crunch the packed leaves beneath their feet as they walk home. There's something oddly sweet about his insistence to walk her home every day; it twists a warm nerve in her chest and fondness filters in.

At the base of her driveway, Connor kisses her goodbye. A minty flavour overwhelms her mouth; underneath the heat of his usual intensity, there's something different today.

Something almost akin to gentleness.

There's a warmth and not only physically; it's not just in the kiss, but in the way that his gaunt arm is around her waist in a loose grasp, the way that his other hand touches the smooth skin of her cheek. It's always brief, nothing long enough to plant seeds for emotions to blossom from.

It's been a long day though; her head is already spinning from equations, projects and the steadily accumulating homework that builds on the chair next to her desk. It's subconscious, born from exhaustion and need for physical contact, how her palms grasp onto the folds of his denim jacket to keep him steady and present under her touch.

When he breaks the kiss, her fingers must hold on to the folds of his jacket for a moment too long as she peers up into his face because his expression shifts, like a change in the wind that blows in cold air. Dropping her hands swiftly, she tucks them into her pockets.

Of course.

Neither of them can hold on. It's against the rules.

-

At first the idea of being entirely without a label was intriguing to her. Not unlike a secret that only the two of them share. Alana has hardly ever been included in anything before and this was a shining opportunity to be something more, to be in something more with someone else.

 _It's so much like a ridiculous cliché_ , she tells herself, _it's almost impossible to believe_. This attempt at finding some sort of brevity aids in pushing down the swell of the tempest in her mind when she sees one of the girls in their class flirting with Connor in the hallway.

And with his usual passive indifference, he takes it with a dry amusement.

He doesn't flirt back, but he stands over her and listens to her press on and that small fraction of himself that does crave attention is stirred. To be seen by anyone does satisfy that fraction, even if there are only monotone emotions and no spark between them.

Alana hadn't considered that other girls would find his outsider personality attractive enough to hit on. She forgot that to be the outcast is something more popular lately, that apparently to go against the grain is the only justifiable way to go.

Alana sees the flaws in both sides of the same coin.

As she observes them from her locker, it's not as if she is wallowing in feelings of neglect or ownership. He isn't _her's_. Whatever it is that they have doesn't mean _anything_.

As soon as the girl unlatches herself from Connor's side, Alana approaches him. Making their way through the crowd of students, silence between them is filled by the unending talking around them.

It's not until the cool autumn air fills their lungs as they step outside that the silence between them is not filled by their surroundings anymore. It's quiet, save for the passing car, and Alana wonders what Connor is thinking and leaving unsaid.

"Who was she?" _God, I sound like jealous, I'm not..._

"Lauren," he replies, cutting off her train of thought. Discreetly eyeing her, he continues, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why ask?"

"I'm not allowed to or something?"

"You can do a lot of things, Beck, but playing stupid isn't one of those things."

Perhaps it would not sting so much if it weren't accurate. Alana sucks in a cold breath of air and keeps up with his long strides.

_What's around him and I? Nothing. Only air._

_Exactly._

_There's no strings on us._

-

Alana does what she knows best; she reasons herself out of any jealousy that threatens to flare up. Logic, a weapon that she wields with skill, cuts through any reassuring emotions. Even when she finds herself working out the frustrations of her day through a kiss so intense that it burns her lips and ignites fire through her bones, she talks herself out of wanting to hold onto him for a moment longer afterwards.

The thoughts are a cycle, a broken record in her mind. Think of the rules. Don't go against the rules. Following rules is something that Alana excels at.

Only these rules are more difficult to follow.

Every time they talk about their day, she's drawn towards the idea of entirely untying the knot that holds her so tightly together. Safe subjects, unemotional and unattached conversations...they hardly scratch the surface of what she begins to wish that she could tell him. He listens, even about the trivial things, which is something that her internal compass points towards.

And her compass directs her to him, the one person she finds herself always looking for in the crowd, absentmindedly thinking about and always gravitating towards.

These realisations that she struggles to suppress creep in on her like the first furtive rays of sunlight at dawn.

-

"I can't do this anymore."

Alana's palm presses against his chest, pushing him away from her. The words catch in her throat, crowding inside of her mouth. Her pulse, once rhythmic with his, has now leapt forward and rattles her ribcage. A thick fog has rolled into her mind, blocking out almost all of her thoughts except for one.

_I can't, I can't, I can't._

The driveway to her house is damp from the rain; droplets of water cling to her shoes as she moves past him and towards the front door. If only her hands weren't shaking so much, she might be able to get the key to slide into the lock—

"What's going on?" Connor wants to know, rightfully so. There's nothing accusatory in his tone, only bemusement mixed with guarded neutrality. His voice comes closer as he comes over and stands behind her. She keeps her back turned, still fumbling with the key.

_This isn't the right key, why do they all look the exact same..._

"I'm not going to drag this out of you, Alana, I don't work that way."

It's the first time he's called her Alana, not simply Beck. He might as well be electric, because his words shoot lightening through her.

Her lips are dry under her tongue and his mint gum is still tainting her sensitive skin there. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, what did I do wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Then what is it?"

Alana deliberates, resigned to the unravelling of whatever their unlabelled relationship was. Past tense now, there is a slim chance of it being brought back. "You had to go and call me Alana, didn't you." It's not a question, something more like a confession and a reaction. The door unlocks finally, the correct key slipping in.

He pauses before he realises what she means, what's laying beneath her insinuation. "I see."

"I'm sorry, Connor."

He's processing, reeling it in and waiting to react. She doesn't turn to face him, keeping her eyes trained on the doorknob and the unopened door. Her metal keys are cold in her hand but she doesn't dare move to put them away.

A burning feeling is in her eyes. "I really am sorry."

"You don't have to be. We should have gotten scissors months ago."

 _Scissors to cut the strings_ , Alana bitterly. She nods to acknowledge him but she can't look at him. She doesn't want to look at him now or ever.

He goes on, sounding almost as uncertain as he feels. "We should probably just be friends. That's all."

She mutely nods once again.

Connor swallows, squinting at the sky for a moment before turning his gaze back towards Alana. Her head is still bent forward, her limbs are going numb from the sedentary position she's in. Her enigmatic rawness that drew him towards her that evening at the dance still shines brightly.

He sucks in a breath. "Yeah, I guess I give it about a week."

It takes courage, more than she anticipates, to turn around and look him in the eyes after this. There's something almost akin to a mischievousness in them, his reassurance restored and no longer uncertain.

She ventures to ask, "A week for what?" The wretched pain inside of her is already fading around the edges when a small smirk lifts the corners of his lips.

"Just friends."


	12. stoic heart (Evan x Jared)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛Evan looks small amid the crisp bedsheets. "I'll be fine. Do you want to go home?"
> 
> "You sound like you've been smoking for eighty years."
> 
> "Thanks, Jared."❜
> 
> (This was a fic request by StormBerryMC who asked ”Can you write one where Evan is sick and Jared cares for him?“. I hope you like this! <3)

Heidi's palm is cool on Evan's warm forehead.

Her searching, experienced maternal gaze meets Evan's glassy eyes as he stares back quietly.

"You're definitely sick. Get in bed. At least I'm a nurse, right?" In response to her ditch effort to make him smile, Evan's lips twitch upwards slightly. As he climbs under the smooth blankets, she sits on the edge of his bed in her nurse clothes. There's a twinge in his chest as he studies her; he doesn't want her to go to work and leave him here by himself. If this were a few years ago, before she had a job, she'd have stayed with him all night.

But the current reality is a hardworking mother who has to make the difficult choices that she doesn't want to be making. Her eyes dart to her watch, subconsciously; five pm. Night shift is a jagged edge in their schedule and a bane in both of their's existences.

Evan can see her processing, considering what to do for him. It's always uncomfortable watching someone decide what to do with you when you're sick and you're never more aware of the fact that you are hitch in everyone's plans.

"I can't skip work," she finally says and it's a depressing truth. Noticing her son's vacant expression, she offers, "I can call Jared and see if he'll stay with you tonight."

He dismisses it. "Jared never would."

"I can make him."

Evan crinkles his nose, an endearing expression. "You can do that?"

A smile, one born from experience and assuredness. "Of course I can. Jared is rarely as obstinate as he pretends to be. He'll take very good care of you while I'm gone."

-

"So what's the matter with you?"

Heidi was right, of course she was. After pressing twenty dollars into his palm as she brushed past him out the door, Jared came resignedly up the stairs and now he eyes Evan suspiciously from the doorway

Evan looks small amid the crisp bedsheets. "I'll be fine. Do you want to go home?"

"You sound like you've been smoking for eighty years."

"Thanks, Jared."

"My pleasure." Advancing one step further into the bedroom, the air is heavy with the scent of cough syrup. "Really, what's wrong?" Realising just how legitimately concerned he sounds, Jared continues with his voice more impassive and smooth, "Or are you just making this up as an elaborate trap for me?"

As a response, Evan sneezes and it's a sufficient reply. There's no tissues nearby, so Jared makes his first unwilling move as caretaker by locating the tissue box on the desk and handing it to him at arm length. "Take one."

"It really is nice of you to stay," Evan says thickly.

Jared looks down at Evan. "Well, I had to cancel a hot date tonight."

"Really?"

From behind Jared's glasses, his eyes raise to the ceiling. "Yeah, my hot date is Connor Murphy. Evan, who raised you to be so gullible?"

"Mom always tried to teach me that honesty is a virtue so I guess I don't realise when people are being sarcastic."

There's something oddly sincere about this confession that Jared pauses for a moment, caught off guard. Drawing in a breath of the medicine saturated air, Jared abruptly shakes his head. Gingerly sitting on the edge of Evan's bed, where Heidi had been an hour before, he says, "Ok, I'm going to teach you a lesson in sarcasm then. It's lying, except everyone knows it's lying, so it's not really lying. When used correctly, sarcasm offers a wonderful remix to a really boring conversation. It's like the salt to the dish called life. Make sense?

"Not really. I've always thought that sarcasm is for people that aren't brave enough to say what they really are thinking."

"As if you're an authority on saying what's on your mind," Jared reorts, maybe a little too defensively, a little too quickly as a deflecting shield.

Evan's jaw tightens as he swallows and then he abruptly sneezes again, snapping any hum of tension that rippled between them. Jared hands him the box of tissues again. "Keep your disease on your side of the bed."

As a peace offering, Evan says, "Tell me more about sarcasm."

Jared considers this a moment and realising that they have a long night ahead of them, he goes on, "Alright, well...the worst thing is when people can't use sarcasm right. It's cringeworthy. Like when Alana tries to be sarcastic but she's really not that good at it because she's too serious. A key to sarcasm is to be seriously unserious."

"Seriously unserious. Got it. But how can you tell when a sarcastic person means what they're saying?"

"Ehh, you'll be able to tell. You aren't stupid."

"Thanks." And Evan's flushed cheeks are lifted by a small smile.

Jared stands up, surveying the room. It's been a long time since he's been in Evan's bedroom. When they were younger, while their parents were downstairs talking, Jared and Evan were sent away into the bedroom. There used to be a picture of Evan and his parents on the wall, taken while they were on vacation in Florida. Jared had always liked that picture and notices it's absence. Now there are plants on the windowsill, a new addition. A few polaroids hang above his desk; trees, flowers and one features a dark bird against the slate grey sky. They're excellent and Jared glances at them with surprised admiration. It's subtle changes such as these that remind Jared of how things have shifted over the recent years.

"Do you like them?" Evan asks.

Jared turns around. "Yeah. You took them?"

Evan modestly replies, "Mom taught me how to use her old camera from the 80's."

That would normally be something that Evan would have told Jared about. He always used to tell Jared about changes, any lifts in the normal switch of his life. For some reason, this doesn't settle well with Jared; he sees the gap that's eroded between them more clearly than the physical one between them now.

Evan sneezes once more, followed immediately by a string of sickly coughs. Jared snaps out of his meditative trance and picks up the bottle of medicine on the bedside table. "How much do you normally take?"

"I'm not sure, Mom usually just gives it to me."

Jared scans the bottle, eventually locating a dosage amount. Pouring it into the little plastic cup, Jared offers it too Evan. "This is apparently supposed to taste like 'cherry blast'. Who names these things? Take it."

"I really don't need to—"

"What's with the attitude?"

"I hate taking medicine." And there's a certain connotation that Jared picks up on, buried beneath the contrary response.

Jared smoothly says, unwilling to give away the fact that he heard the unsaid, "If you don't take it, you won't get better and then you might end up in the hospital for months and months and I'd miss you like an idiot misses the point."

Evan is unconvinced but Jared holds the plastic cup so close to his face that he can't refuse it. He swallows it and after a second, his features scrunch up into a grimace. "It doesn't taste like cherry."

"Can't say I'm surprised, it smells more like something you clean with." Jared hesitates before asking, "Do you...need anything? Are you hungry?"

"I'm ok."

Jared replies, "If you're sure. I don't want your mom to kill me if I don't give you the five star treatment."

Evan looks up at Jared with his glassy, heavy gaze. Has it been a year or more since he's really been one-on-one with Jared? High school takes all middle school friendships and sweeps them under the rug. Despite Jared's steady stream of light comments, there's something forced about them. As Evan studies his friend he feels the ripple sensation of realisation that things have sent them on their separate ways in more ways than one.

Suddenly more at peace with his sickness and this opportunity to talk to Jared, Evan sits up a little. "It's nice of you to even come over."

Guilt gnaws at Jared. The twenty dollars is burning a hole in his pocket. There had been a time when he hadn't needed to be bribed to come over; _what happened to that version of me?_ "I mean it's not as if I've got anything better to do, after all."

Unsatisfied with the brush off, Evan repeats in a quiet, sincere voice, "Still...thank you."

Unaccustomed to anyone speaking to him with any actual sincerity, Jared parts his lips to say some snappy one-liner but none come out. There's a difference between saying something and meaning it; Evan favours the latter. Jared has never had to question Evan meaning something. He always has worn his heart on his blue striped sleeves.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Jared moves across the room with no set location. Pausing at the window, he makes a vague comment on the snow.

"You can smell snow as it falls," Evan says almost wistfully. The cough medicine has slipped him into a drowsy, honest state and his comfortableness is a stark contrast to Jared's discomfort. It's a chain of watching; Evan watches Jared who watches the snow.

"Really?" Jared asks this but it's more of a generalised statement, fuzzy around the edges.

"Yes," Evan confirms, "Right as it started to snow, Mom would take me outside, we'd stand in the snow and everything smells like...I don't know, snow I guess." And he trails off.

"I guess I've never noticed."

"When I feel better and the next time it snows, we'll have to go outside then."

A pause. "Yeah, sure."

"Mom and I haven't done that in a long time. It'll be nice to do it with you."

Jared absentmindedly says, "Your mom isn't around much anymore is she?"

"No, she isn't with me anymore. Nobody is. But it's not her fault."

Something about the addition of _nobody_ _is_ feels double bladed. "What do you mean _nobody_?"

"Dad's not around anymore, neither is Mom or you."

"I'm with you every day at school," Jared reminds him. Finally, he turns around to cast a glance at the patient.

"Being around someone every day doesn't mean being _with_ them. There's a difference."

The guilt is growing. "Yes, I suppose there is a difference," Jared replies distantly. "Do you need a drink or something?"

When Evan asks for water, Jared seizes the opportunity to leave the bedroom. The house is quiet as Jared walks down the familiar hallway and down the stairs that he used to dare Evan to skip steps on. Going into the kitchen and turning on the tap, Jared watches the water fill the glass. His stomach is twisting and there's an unfamiliar hollowness in his chest. It distracts him to the point that he doesn't realise the water has overflowed the glass until it spills over his fingers.

Bringing the glass to Evan, Evan is as grateful as Jared anticipated he would be. Somehow, this makes the hollow feelings worse. All of those times he brushed Evan aside, all of the many times he ignored Evan to give himself a false sense of control over conflicting emotions, it had been hurting Evan more than Jared had ever known. Taking Evan's friendship for granted was never something Jared was aware that he was doing until now, as he sees the divide that has slipped between them.

The hollow feeling, Jared realises, is not hollowness so much as it is an influx of buried feelings.

Guilt, yes.

Loss, even more so.

Somewhere, between the surface and the seabed of the changes in his life, he'd lost a friend.

Jared finds himself sitting down on the edge of the bed. Rallying himself, despite the get-me-out-of-here feeling that always creeps under his skin when he tries to lend himself to the softer emotions, Jared manages, "You shouldn't think that just because your mom is gone a lot and nobody really talks to you at school because you're kind of a nerd, you're...alone. Or anything like that. Who knows, I might talk to you even without the prospect of car insurance."

"You're a good friend, Jared." Evan means this too, which makes Jared significantly more nauseated than even Evan feels right now.

"It's the least I can do," Jared replies and sarcasm doesn't dare to touch his words.

-

Evan has fallen asleep by the time Jared recognises the sound of the lock on the door rattling as Heidi tries her keys in it. Has the time really gone by that quickly? A thrown glance towards the clock confirms this. Collecting the strewn homework that Jared passed the time with, he stands up quickly and Evan, rousing himself slightly, flickers his eyes open.

"Your mom's home. See you soon. Just don't come to school sick."

"I won't. See you, Jared."

Jared stands a moment, looking down at Evan and feeling as though there is something left to say. It's not simple enough to cram into a sentence. The restoration of a broken relationship takes more time than this and it can't be resolved as clinically as Jared wishes that it can be. But there can be a first step and Jared, muscles tight with hesitation, briefly pats Evan's shoulder. He's warm and incredibly human to the touch.

"Take care, alright?"

"I will."

-

Heidi smiles at him as he comes down the stairs. She's shaking off the flakes of snow that cling to her jacket and hair. "I can't thank you enough, Jared. It was a weight off of my mind to know that Evan was with you."

"It wasn't a problem, Ms. Hansen."

"Are you sure you don't want me to drive you home?"

"I'm only a street away, I'll walk. Besides, the snow is kind of nice."

"I used to take Evan out in the snow at night," Heidi comments, "I don't blame you any."

Jared tugs at the sleeves of his coat before reaching in his jeans pocket and unearthing the dollars that Heidi had given him earlier. "Here, Ms. Hansen, I really don't want to take your money."

Her brow furrows as she eyes him. "Why?"

"It's just not necessary." In hopes of not appearing rude, he adds, "I appreciate your offer of it though."

He continues to extend the money to her and after a long, thoughtful silence, she takes it. "If you're sure."

"I really am." His hand meets the doorknob and he opens the door. A cool breath of night air touches him. "Have a nice night, Ms. Hansen."

"You too, Jared."

-

Snowpack crunches under his shoes as he steps off of their front porch and underneath the sprinkling sky. Everything is still and quiet, only the occasional turn of the wheels of a passing car that slowly navigates it's way through the snow.

Pausing, he stands in the centre of the sidewalk and takes a deep breath.

Evan was right; snow really does have a scent all its own.


	13. dear us {Evan x Zoe}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛They're two lines running parallel; if only there is a way for them to see each other still writing those letters despite everything. Writing to each other and themselves.❜
> 
> (Just as a side note, the letters narrative's go back and forth, with Evan's writing and Zoe's writing. This idea has been rattling around in my head for a while and I'm really excited to post it! I really hope that you all like this. Thank you so much for your comments and kudos, they literally make my day so much better. Hugs Xx <3)

_Evan,_

_This sounds weird, but I really wanted to show you my cassette collection. You'd love it. There's a song that always makes me think of you. I wanted to play it for you but I never got to before everything...well, you know. Went up in flames._

_I miss you._

_I miss you, I miss you, I miss you..._

The black ink bleeds into the white paper, only smudging when salty tears spill over and hit the page. Onyx pools form inside of the tear drops as they sink into and smear the paper.

Zoe's stomach is actively twisting into millions of knots. They ache and her throat constricts as she swallows.

 _It's stupid to write this_ , loops the toxic thought, _I'm stupid for writing this_.

Not as if she'd ever consider sending it to him. That's an impossibility. Evan can never, ever read any of these letters that she's written. They stack in her bedside drawer, dozens of unsaid promises and whispers of just how lonely she is without him. If Zoe were a girl that is as drifting and inconsistent as snowdrift, she'd have sent him one.

Zoe is reasonable, logical and more mature than she has ever wanted to be. She resignedly sees the consequences of sending one of the letters to Evan. Taking chances and throwing caution into the wind has been taught out of her.

She tucks this one into the drawer, on top of all the others.

-

_Dear Zoe,_

_There's so much I wanted to say to you. I wanted to tell you about how safe you made me feel, how warm your hands were to hold, how your smile can move mountains._

_I know that I've messed everything up and now I can never tell you this and that's keeps me awake at night._

Evan sets down his pen and breathes out slowly. For an impulsive flicker of a moment, he thought of actually giving this to her. Now as he stares at the words, he regrets ever having written them down. It seemed so much more dimensional in his mind and now he bitterly thinks of how desperate and needy he must sound in these words.

Crumpling it up, he throws it into the trash can.

-

They're two lines running parallel; if only there is a way for them to see each other still writing those letters despite everything. Writing to each other and themselves. It's a strange twist of poetic irony. They never send them, but the stacks of letters grow higher and higher. If they held the letters side by side, a mirror in their words would reflect back at them.

-

Zoe lifts her pen and presses it's tip into the paper, perhaps a little too deeply.

_I wish we could erase everything that's ever happened. I wish that things could be different._

-

Evan stares at the wall and finally wills himself to write. There's some sort of reassurance in the consistency of the writing.

_I walk by you in the hallway and I wish that there was something that I could say to you. When you have that lonely, vacant expression, I want to just stop the world and do something to help you. But I doubt you'd want my help ever again; we saw where that got us last time._

  
-

It's almost inadvertent how they become like a journal for Zoe to speak to. Words begin to fall onto the page easier the more she tries. Getting out the tangled thoughts calm her.

_Sometimes I think about what could have been between us. When I can't sleep, I think about you and I just doing things...I wrote that kind of weird...I mean you and I walking together in the orchard or just watching television or having dinner. You always did love Mom's 'experimental' vegetarian dinners when no one else did._

-

_My mom always told me that when you start to fall in love someone, it begins with wanting to show them things. When you see a sunset or a youtube video or something you've made or done. You want their world to merge with yours. Last week, I was walking home from school and saw this really vibrant tree in our neighbour's yard. It had scarlet leaves and hadn't lost all of them yet._

_And I really, really wanted to show you that tree._

-

_You know when you're driving down a highway and there's a sign that says that they're blocking off one of the lanes? Yeah, that roadblock is between you and I. A few months ago, I would have wanted it. But the more my perspective on this entire situation grows, the more I want it to get out of the way._

-

_You made me start to like myself again. Literally no one could hate me more than I hated me. You're so comfortable in your own skin and I was always so envious of that. You showed me what it's like to be ok with myself. And I'll always be grateful to you for it. I wish I could tell you that. Unfortunately, my courage to talk to you has reached it's all time low._

-

_Remember when we would play the song Somewhere from West Side Story and sing along? During the line, 'Hold my hand and we're halfway there', you would always take my hand and hold it to your chest as if I was the most precious thing in the world. I'm not sure why, but I just started thinking about that in the shower the other day and now I can't stop._

-

_You smiled at me in the hallway yesterday and I'm still in knots about it. Did you want me to say hello? Do you think I was rude that I didn't? My throat got so lodged up and I could hardly breathe or do anything than stare back at you. Looking back, I must have seemed completely stupid. I should have said something and I should have smiled back but I forgot how._

-

_Mom and Dad and I had a picnic at the orchard today. I could barely swallow it because all I could think about was when you had held my hand and we'd walked under those giant trees together, just a few months ago. I'm not heartbroken, don't misunderstand me. For reasons as twisting and contradicting as the branches that wave above us, I feel better to know that all along, I was in love with the real you after all. I believed the lie but I never believed that it was you. If that makes sense._

-

_I saw you walking down the hallway earlier today and you were smiling and laughing with one of your friends. You have the best smile in the entire world, Zoe. Your smile is like a hug. That sounds weird, I should stop... but for some reason, I just really, really wanted to tell you._

  
-

_Between the lies, I know there were truths. The truth comes out masked in lies sometimes. I know that you never pretended to care about me, I know that you never lied to me about how you felt about me. What I don't know is how I know this but for some reason, I do. Call it instinct or maybe just he way you looked at me._

_You never could lie with your eyes, Evan Hansen._

-

_I have this memory of you that keeps popping up at weird times. It was when you took your shoes off and started sliding around your living room in your socks, singing West Side Story for the hundredth time with me. I've never heard you laugh so much and you were acting out Maria's lines with extra dramatic flair. You linked your arm through mine and we were slide-dancing when we slipped and crashed down together on the sofa. And then you kissed me and I felt so safe with you on that sofa in that moment and time seemed to stand still. Nothing else mattered in that moment._

-

_Is it strange that I don't think we ever broke up? I mean, you and I never stopped and said 'hey we need to break up'. The whole...Thing happened and suddenly you dissolved from my side and we never officially ended it. I don't feel broken-up with. Is that a real feeling? Is it something that changes inside of you when you're broken-up-with or is it just emptiness? God knows I do have enough of empty nothingness already._

_If it were official I don't think I'd be able to write these letters to you even if I don't send them. But I have that stupid, stupid shred of hope in me that wants to hold onto you and I don't know how to let you go. Every time I think about letting go of you, I feel sick to my stomach._

_Love sucks._

-

_I'm going to just spit this out because it's been eating me up and I am so regretful that I never told you: I love you, Zoe. I love you. I should have said so more when I had the chance. You deserve to hear that, all the time. For some reason, not being with you has made me see just how much I really do love you. It's a lonely feeling, to be in love with you and never have you know. But I don't want you to ever feel this lonely feeling so I'm hoping that you know that you are loved. I'm going to make you nauseous if I keep writing this sappily so I'll stop._

_I never considered myself to be much of a poet._

-

_I was walking today with my mom (she's on a walking fad now, by the way. She uses those walking poles and everything. It's ridiculous but somehow kind of endearing) and we came across this tree. It was stripped bare by now, except for one leaf. The leaf was clinging on to that tired tree and it was the brightest, most brilliant red leaf I've ever seen in my life. I didn't know whether to admire it or take it off the tree to keep it but thankfully Nature herself decided and the leaf fell to the ground. I took it and am pressing it in a thick volume of William Shakespeare's works. Pressing the leaf gives old William something to do, right? (You're supposed to laugh here, Evan.)_

-

_I'm going to get the courage to talk to you. I'll tell you about that scarlet tree and hopefully you'll care enough to listen._

-

_Next time I see you come down the hallway, I'm going to stop you and give you the leaf._


	14. platonic hearts {Evan x Zoe}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛ _It's just platonic _, Zoe says when he moves in.❜__
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _(I want to apologise for my lack of posting to this series. It's been months, I know. Truth is, I haven't been doing well lately and as a result, my writing has been neglected._  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _I've never written just for kudos or comments but to be bluntly honest, it's been discouraging to see less and less feedback. I suppose I figured that people don't really want to read these one-shots anymore so what's the point of continuing writing them? It was a negative head space to be and I had to remind myself of why I do this in the first place. I write what I want to read and I hadn't been writing what I wanted to read which left me feeling discouraged and unsatisfied. Stepping back helped me to see that I need to write for me again._  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _And that's how this fic came to be._  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _This fic sort of came to me out of nowhere and writing this was an incredible way to vent and process some things going on with me. I've missed this, missed writing and I promise to post more soon. Love you all XX)_  
>  _

_It's just platonic_ , Zoe says when he moves in. Platonic people live together all the time; this isn't particularly novel. Besides, splitting rent is realistic for two broke college students. Old history has been worked out, swept under the rug. Was there a time when they wouldn't have two separate bedrooms? Yes but that isn't the here and now.

 _It's just platonic_ , Evan reminds himself as Zoe curls up on the sofa next to him. The movie plays in the background but Evan's having difficultly focusing. Her sweet scent of soap and clean linen is reassuring, a familiar memory. Part of him wants to pull her closer, part of him knows that's absurd thinking... _stupid Evan, stupid me_...

 _It's just platonic_ , Zoe murmurs to herself in the shower. Steaming water encompass her frame as she watches the water pool before swirling down the drain. Why she's repeating this to herself so often is unclear; it's a subconscious thought. It's as if he's the song she can't get out of her head lately and that reminder is the chorus.

 _It's just platonic_ , Evan tells Jared who simply raises an eyebrow in response. _Why doesn't he believe me? It's the truth_. Jared remarks exes don't live together unless they miss each other. Just as Evan swallows this down, Jared shrugs and offhandedly comments that he doesn't know much anyway so who really knows.

 _It's just platonic_ , Zoe insists to quiet her own mind, leaning her forehead against Evan's shoulder. It's a new stereo after all and why not play some music and dance together? People dance together all the time. Exes included. It's a slow song; it's not as if they can jump around like earlier, when they had run out of breath and were flushed from laughter.

 _It's just platonic_ , Evan breathes to himself when Zoe floats into the living room, looking like an angel in her new dress. She twirls around to show him the flaring skirt, a warm shine in her eyes as she asks him how it looks. Of course he says good — or something like that. Dry mouthed, he doesn't allow himself to admit that if she is an angel, he's longing for her Holy light.

 _It's just platonic_ , Zoe repeats. Platonic and drunk. The warm pulse of the house party bangs against the doorway to the bathroom. They're perched on the edge of the bathtub. Parties are hardly their scene; retreating to the bathroom with a few bottles of alcohol, a stray hand lingers too long on Evan's knee. Between their stumbling words and smothered laughter, he reaches over to tuck back some of her hair. How long does his hand hover near her face? She can't tell but something inside her stirs when he pulls his hand away.

 _It's just platonic_ , Evan curses himself as he watches Zoe get ready to go on a date the next day. Did she notice that his fingers drifted near her delicate features just a second too long at the party yesterday? Evan has a headache, is feeling oddly off-centred than usual. Chewing his lip, he wishes her the best on her date.

It's just platonic, Zoe responds to her date who asks why she's living with her ex. Her date is unconvinced and it grows throughout the evening as she brings up Evan's name at least a dozen times. Sighing gustily, the date offers her a wane smile at her response and brings her home shortly thereafter. Zoe doesn't know where everything went wrong; the first time she mentioned Evan's name or the fifteenth?

 _It's just platonic_ , Evan shouts as the argument riles up. Zoe loudly agrees with him. They can't understand why her date doesn't get that. It's midnight when her date texts her, saying that it would be best if they don't go out again. Zoe figures out why quickly. Indignation swirls up inside her. She can't tell if she's arguing with Evan or if they're passionately agreeing on the topic. He's defensive, rolling his eyes at the mere suggestion of them being together and she's mirroring him the exact same way. What on earth is her date thinking?

 _It's just platonic_ , Zoe agrees, much more subdued as the argument comes to a close. Offering her ice cream as a consolation, they set the carton between them on the kitchen floor and ignore the clock that relays a later and later time. Spoons clinking against each other, fingers brushing, they much more quietly agree that her date is completely out of his mind and not worth her valuable time. This should be a satisfying conclusion but in bare actuality, she feels nothing. The ice cream no longer seems cold on her tongue and her anger dissolves into a pit of nothingness. Exhaling slowly, she wonders if he notices.

 _It's just platonic_ , Evan agitatedly tells Heidi. Amending this, he goes on in a milder tone to remind her that what happened years ago means nothing. Anyway, he adds, he has to go because it's the first snowfall of the year and he and Zoe always go out in it. Heidi has to reign in any laughter; did he really just spent a half an hour insisting that they couldn't be less interested in each other, only to hang up to go be with her?

 _It's just platonic_ , Zoe whispers as they stand outside in the first snowfall of the year. His hat is crooked and his warm eyes are lifted toward the delicate flakes that tumble down on them. Her stomach twists as the realisation that there is no one else in the world that she'd rather stand here with. It's a sharp pang in her chest as this breaks on her. I can't, I can't, I can't kiss him right now. Only she does and the worst thing that could possibly happen does; he kisses her back, cupping her face in his soft gloves, his breath warm on her cold face. It's desperate, as if it's been simmering and begging to happen.

 _It's just platonic_ , Evan hears himself say to her as their lips part. He knows that he has to say this even if he wants to hold onto her longer. They're caught up in a moment, a kaleidoscope of raw feelings. The truth, tomorrow is a reality that can't be ignored. Zoe stiffens in his arms and retracts. Her breath mists the air as she exhales sharply and spins around to go home. She doesn't wait up for him and he's left to stand there and hate every fibre of his being.

 _It's just platonic_ , she sobs in a rehearsed speech to herself. The pillow is the only thing that hears her sobs and absorbs her tears. Her breathing is unsteady as she listens to the front door open. Evan's quiet footsteps come down the hallway and pause outside her doorway. A crack of light spills into the room as he twists her doorknob, opening it just enough to see her. Taking in a breath, her eyes meet his. Her gaze has always pierced through him; even now, it shatters his facade and he practically collapses onto the bed with her.

 _It's not platonic_ , Evan's trembling voice reprises as he reaches for her, clumsy and begging kisses tracing the soft skin of her face, her jawline, her collarbone. He doesn't care about the truth or tomorrow or anything beyond this. Her lips, finding his, taste salty with tears, the tears that she cried over him and them. It sickens him; anything, anything in the entire world is worse than making her cry. His heart is bleeding for her right now and he wouldn't have it any other way.

 _It's not platonic_ , Zoe's mind sings, a new song that has latched into her mind, her heartbeat a wild thing in her chest. To touch him again is bringing back a flood of memories. Running her fingers through his hair, breathing him in, locking him in her arms to keep him close — they're new memories now, filtering out the old ones. The question of tomorrow that he reminded her of has been answered and they don't need to say anything anymore. There's been enough talking.

_It's not platonic._

 


	15. 1:00.am {Connor x Alana}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛"It's fine," Alana abruptly replies, "I'll stay with Connor."
> 
> Connor is not the only one who is stunned by this. Jared, Zoe and Evan stop talking and falter a second. 
> 
> Zoe counters this offer swiftly. "Are you sure?"❜
> 
> (Fic Request by Sarah: ”Ah I love your Connor x Alana fanfiction so much! I love the way you write their chatacters. There's not enough fic for this pairing—you're a saint for filling a much needed void. Would you mind writing a Connor x Alana bed sharing AU? Lots of fluff and maybe snuggles?“
> 
> I hope you like this fic, Sarah! <3 It was so enjoyable to write, especially their banter <3)

"I'm not sleeping with you, Con-man."

"Well, when you word it like that, duh," Connor snaps, "and for your sake, I suggest you don't call me that again."

"Kinky," Jared replies before rolling his eyes. Resting his palm on the door handle, he pauses. "I'm going to find someone else to room with."

Pushing the door open, the dim light of the hallway spills into their room. Jared starts to slam it shut but Connor's hand cuts between the doorway and the door. Shoving it further open, he starts after him.

Their argument has caught the attention of their classmates in their separate rooms. Evan opens his door, his roommate Alana peering over his shoulder. Zoe's in her pyjamas, her expression filled with exasperation as she intervenes between Jared and Connor.

"It's one in the morning, this better be good," she interrupts icily.

Alana, now more curious than ever and sensing impending drama, wants to know what's going on. Evan is her shadow as he quietly watches Zoe with rapt attention. One day, she might just look back and that distant hope is what pulls his feet further into the hallway to watch the unfolding situation.

"I'm not sleeping with Connor."

"Stop saying it like that," Connor interjects, taking a step closer to Jared. Jared refuses look up at Connor, refuses to give him that level of respect. Instead, in an admittedly bratty and immature way, he drifts over to Evan.

"Can I stay in your room?"

Evan hesitates, "I mean, Alana is kind of in the bed and I'm in the only chair so..."

"It's fine," Alana abruptly replies, "I'll stay with Connor."

Connor is not the only one who is stunned by this. Jared, Zoe and Evan stop talking and falter a second.

Zoe counters this offer swiftly. "Are you sure?"

"Sure, it's just one night. We're all tired and I plan on waking up for the Academic Bee well-rested. So if it shuts everyone up right now, I'll do whatever it takes."

If she looked over at Connor now, she'd see a startled expression; parted lips and widened eyes.

After deciding that it's been too awkward of a pause, Jared says, "Well, you two have fun sleeping together."

A plaid-pyjama clad arm nudges Jared. "Word choice, Jared," Evan murmurs. Jared's already moved on though; his fingers are taut around Evan's sleeve as he tugs him toward their room. Deciding she's too tired to argue, letting Alana fend for herself, Zoe retreats to her room with scarcely awake Sabrina Patel.

"Who died?" Sabrina wants to know, the entire confrontation a jumbled blur in her barely conscious state.

"Disaster averted. Probably," Zoe responds, the door closing behind her.

The hallway is empty, in exception for Connor and Alana, and the silence fills every corner. Hesitation flows hotly between them; she shifts, snapping it in half.

Crossing his arms across his chest, he looks down at her. "Why'd you volunteer?"

"I told you, I wanted everyone to shut up. Is this your room?" At his nod, she pushes open the door and steps inside. The lock clicks behind them, a sharp sound amid their padded silence.

Say something, anything.

This uncertainty had not existed when she slept in Evan's room. She'd talked about the Academic Bowl, he'd listened patiently. She had nothing to prove to Evan then. He knows she's the smartest girl in the class, he'd never argued or competed with that, entirely under her submission. If she cannot bend the person she's talking to, when she's met with resistance, she's off-centred. Without that authoritative, superior edge it takes away her confidence.

Surely Connor doesn't judge her as much as she feels he does; it's always been like this at school. When she feels his eyes on her, she's thrown from her carefully built pedestal.

And now he isn't saying a word so she starts talking to fill up the quiet. Pulling back the sheets of the bed, she says, "I've never stayed in a hotel before. Whenever we, my family that is, go anywhere we always rent a place to stay. This is all extremely new to me and such an excellent learning experience. I'd never considered a career as a hotel manager but it's certainly a profitable business that I should give more thought to. If I interned as an assistant to the manager, that would show on my college applications that I have leadership skills—"

The back of her nightshirt caves against the skin of her back as Connor reaches forward, running a hand down her spine. "No off-switch? Too bad."

She moves away. "Oh, shush."

"You can relax, you know. I hate it when people play characters around me."

Perhaps she begins to reply when a more pressing issue comes to fruition. They stand at the foot of the bed. Neither wants to say that they're uncomfortable with the idea; the more she dwells on it, the less uncomfortable she becomes. The room is hardly lit and for that, he is grateful. His pale skin hardly ever flushes; if she saw the colour tint his cheekbones, he'd never live it down.

Alana speaks first. "Um, we can...if you're okay with it. I mean, you shouldn't have to sleep on a chair in the corner and—"

"And you shouldn't either, so..."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

With Evan, there had been no debate. He'd offered, almost pleaded, to sleep somewhere else. It would not have surprised anyone if he'd offered to sleep on the bathroom floor instead of having to face the anxiety and unfamiliar territory of sharing a bed with someone he barely knows. And this is why he so readily and uncomplainingly accepted Jared as a roommate; since they were young, their parents forced them to share everything— including beds.

The only potion for this rigid pause is to act as though this is something she does every single night. Tucking her long hair over her shoulders, she moves toward the bed. This movement sparks him to move as well; standing still would only make this more difficult.

Once the initial discomfort of the dilemma dissolves, Connor seems to be far more relaxed than Alana can ever hope to be. This is not, she assumes, the first time he's ever slept with someone. And she is sure that those instances are under different circumstances.

She'd almost laugh if she weren't so keenly self aware in the moment.

The cotton sheets are soft but she barely notices them. Oh god, this is so strange. Do I think of something to say or just try (ha!) to sleep?

And the small of her back is still tingling from where he brushed against her. She plans on looking back at this night with mutually chagrin and humour. Ridiculous feelings, as twisted and tight as a dozen knots in her body.

She wishes that there's something to say to crack the ice between them. Something to stop this stupid, stupid quietness.

Going with the first thing to strike through her mind, she says abruptly, "I'm starving. Are you?"

"Always."

\---

A life lesson, she thinks distantly, is that sharing food with someone can relieve some tension between you both.

After a thorough scour of the room, they found a bag of chips; surprisingly, they aren't stale. The bag rests between them amid the mussed sheets; Alana crosses her legs neatly, Connor's lengthy legs are drawn into an inverted V.

Alana asks him what he thinks of the Academic Bee, a safe topic and middle ground.

"You didn't think I qualified when you found out," he guesses.

"What would make you say that?"

"You saw my name on the list and said to Sabrina 'Why is Connor on the list'. It doesn't get more obvious than that." He'd have been more offended if it didn't amuse him so much.

The memory of that moment strikes her with undeniable regret. They'd just talked, if him teasing her and her snapping at him counted as a conversation. Somewhere inside of her, she'd enjoyed it. Not that she'd ever tell him that. Warmth and mixed emotions had been flowing hot and heavy in her when she came across the list. Just to spite herself and him, she had said rather loudly, "Why is Connor on the list?". Sabrina had laughed and no one thought much about it; they all were wondering the same thing. Connor was hardly an all-star student but he was smart when he applied himself. This semester he was so bored he had nothing else better to do than apply himself.

So he'd heard her.

Her stomach twists, there's a tug in her chest. "I didn't mean it."

"Everybody thought that too. No big deal."

"I was just irritated with you. It was very spur of the moment."

"Beck, chill. It's fine."

"No it's not."

"I"m the one that's supposed to be offended so it's my call whether it's fine or not."

"You're so difficult sometimes."

"I know. But you're the only person with enough intellect to be difficult back at me."

"Evan's smart."

"Him? I've said literally five words to him in my life."

"He's nice. You should talk to him more. Maybe he'll be your new hobby."

"Annoying you is enough of a hobby for me, thanks."

That's when she offers him a hint of a smile. Despite his efforts to be cooly detached, his lips lift into a soft curve. She's never seen him fully smile, enough to crease features and brighten his eyes. But this fraction that he gives her now is enough to ease her curiosity— for now.

If he ever does let his guard down, she suddenly has the strong desire to be the person to make him smile at her.

\---

Speaking when the lights are out is always easier.

Having unforgiving light illuminate your deepest, most carefully buried thoughts is indelicate and intrusive. The darkness is the greatest confessional; to bare yourself to the darkness is a more fragile way of surrender to yourself.

"Are you okay, Connor?"

She can feel the sheets that rest over them shift. "What?"

The only light in the room is from the parking lot lights that cast their florescent blue glow. It spills through the curtains and onto the floor. Alana does not permit herself to wonder if he's looking at her in this vague lightening. Understanding the importance of the darkness, he seems to shift back over to stare at the ceiling.

"You know what I mean," she replies.

"No," he says finally, "I'm not. Neither are you."

"I don't think anybody is. Anyone who says they are is lying."

"This year has sucked. And the year before that. Actually, never mind, every year has sucked."

"My mom says that you don't suffer more than you do when you're a teenager."

"Amen to that."

"This is supposed to be a character building experience."

"Put that on your college application. 'I suffered a lot as a teenager, please let me into your college'."

"That's not a totally horrible idea—"

"Wow thanks."

Ignoring him, she continues, "They might feel bad for me."

"If you do it, I'll do it."

"A pact. What are you even thinking of going to college for?"

"Psychology, maybe."

"Good idea, then you can fix me. I'll come to your office every day."

"Can I start charging you now? Does this count as my first therapy session?"

"Oh, whatever."

"What about you?" he wants to know.

She considers this a long moment. "Something in business, I suppose. I'm not sure, that's the thing. I should. But this is the career for rest of my life so I feel so much pressure with this. Out of all my strategic choices I've made, this is the most difficult."

He's surprisingly sympathetic. "I get that."

There's a long pause, only this time it's drained of any awkwardness. It's comfortable, it's a cushioned reassurance of listening to the unspoken.

"I think that if I can survive being a teenager, I can survive anything," she says.

"Except for adulthood."

An amused, wry laugh. "Yeah, there's always that. If I can survive both, I can survive anything." Her hand finds his in the dark. "You can, too."

"Thank you," he says and she doesn't need to ask him why.

\---

It's impossible to know what time they fell asleep. After giving up on the idea, willing to makes the big mistake of just letting the night and necessary sleep slip through their fingers, they lost track of the time.

The alarm clock is a bitter wake-up call. Connor, always a light sleeper, is first to wake up and first to notice that somewhere in those blurred hours of the night, his arm has tucked around her waist. The plane of her forehead presses against his shoulder; it's a soft, intimate embrace that neither are accustomed to and neither know how to react to.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"You ok?" He doesn't know why he asks this but it seems the suitable response.

"I'm ok."

Loose, tumbling strands of hair cover his eyes. Uncombed, tousled from the night before. Alana reaches over, her fingers skimming his temples as she brushes it back.

"At least try to comb your hair before we go on stage today."

A lazy hand rakes through it. "There. Done."

"Spectacular," she says but it's mock sarcasm.

There's a lingering moment as they consider the day ahead. It's strange how she's thought nothing of the event today that is supposed to be such a high credit. Normally she'd be awake, dressed and going over the flash cards already. And tonight, after the Bee, they all will be on the bus heading home and splitting separate ways.

"Hey, so is this a 'what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas' sort of thing?" Connor questions. At risk of sounding like he cares too much, he adds, "We should probably get our stories straight."

"Right, that's logical. What do you want this to mean?"

"I don't know, what do you want this to mean?"

"I don't know. Is there anything you do know?"

"I do know...that you are one of the few people that actually looks good right after waking up," Connor responds.

"Flattery will get you nowhere with me," she says. Her eyes betray this.

"Flattery was going to be half of my points," he protests.

The door rattles as Zoe knocks, rousing them both completely. "We're leaving in thirty minutes," she announces.

"We need to get up," Alana reasonably says.

No sooner does she extend a hand to pull her blankets off, does he say, "Hold on a sec."

And he kisses her, briefly, suddenly, sharply. It's over almost as soon as it starts and Alana is left stunned and grasping for a response to this. Coming up empty, she hides an uncontrollable, almost giddy smile. Her reaction she keeps private, just for herself to replay and relive a hundred times.

"Now we can get up," is all he says.

 


	16. loud {Evan one-shot}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛Made himself a little fortress in his own lies and insecurity and now there is no music or walls or people or apps or distractions to hide behind.
> 
> Just him.
> 
> In the dark with the light on.
> 
> Alone.❜

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everybody.
> 
> I want to first apologise for the lack of updating lately. My mental health has been a daily struggle for me. I felt too discouraged to update here and largely uninspired. And I am truly sorry about that.
> 
> So a little bit about this one-shot. I imagine that this takes place maybe a day or two before he confesses to the Murphy's what happened. I was always curious about the possible psychology before the moment of the confession so tapping into that was an interesting writing experience. I hope that you enjoy this update to the one-shots. I apologise for the fact that it isn't particularly 'shippy', just some references to Evan x Zoe. And as always, I would love to hear your thoughts on it.
> 
> Much love. Xx

Sleep is never going to happen anyway.

Hasn't in weeks.

It's dark.

Evan flicks on the bedside light. It illuminates the corners of his room, all of the messy corners; it's been a while since he's cleaned, Heidi has been reminding him but he hasn't been listening. He doesn't remember the last time he really listened to his Mother. Or the last time he really slept. Or the last time that quiet didn't feel like it was out to get him.

The quiet is buzzing in his ears, an insisting hum that involuntarily makes him snap his fingers. Louder than he meant to. It was the first thing that flashed in his mind as a way to splinter the silence.

His lungs fill with air. He forgets to exhale. Then he breathes out in an ungrateful rush that washes his lips with air.

Music. Music is a distraction. It fills up the edges and he can hide behind the artist's voice, they always know what to say when he doesn't.

Expect Jared has his headphones. Said he borrowed them, more or less stole them from Evan. Jared always is losing his headphones.

The walls are thin and Heidi needs to sleep. He already feels enough guilt about all of the shifts she's been working lately. They're overwhelming for her, she's going through enough right now without him waking her up. He's taken care of himself, his anxiety, various illnesses and injuries on his own at night on his own for a few years now. Taking care of himself is something he does a poor job at but when it's his only option, he makes himself adjust.

Evan reaches over and takes out his phone. Opening Twitter is always a form of hell but his fingers are chained up to all of those apps. They fill up something in him. They make him feel like he's apart of something. People like him there, they like _that_ Evan, those pixels love him.

Scrolling keeps his mind distracted. It feels selfishly good to detach from his body, slip into that expressionless facade where he can just watch everyone else exist through the screen and he can be in their lives while in the safety of his bedroom.

Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. Stop. A twitter thread by one of his classmates. She's upset, talking about how she was internet friends with someone on here and they ended up not being who she thought they were. She mentions how they lied to her and how much it hurts right now to think about how she trusted that boy. Trust is a scary thing, she adds.

Under the tweets, Zoe comments about how sorry she is, how she's here for her, how she hopes that it will be okay soon.

Zoe, always trying to help others. He loves her for it.

He loves her. He loves her. More than he's every loved anybody else. And he wonders if he's capable of being loved this much back. Touching her, holding her hand, kissing her has gone from sweet to hell. It scares him how much he feels when he's around her.

Guilt, fear, love, adoration.

They're past the point of no return now.

Like the Connor in his head said; how can he tell her that everything has been a lie? What a cliche, what a stupid cliche it would be to say 'but what I feel for you is real!'. Evan is disgusted with himself at the mere thought.

Why can't she just tell him that she doesn't love him anymore? Why can't everyone forget that he exists? Why can't Connor come back?

Nothing warm or loving envelops him as he reads the tweets. It's not a hug, it's too confining and claustrophobic. Starts slow, builds higher and higher until he's sitting up straighter in bed because the nausea gets worse when he is on his back in bed. This feeling has got him in a chokehold and there's this second voice in his body, grabbing his ribcage like the bars of a prison cell, rattling them around, screaming for him to just think, think, think, think, _think_ —

Think of what he's doing, think of the lies and the lies and the lies and the lies...the way his resting heart rate registers at a panic attack, the way that he can barely swallow food, the way he's going so fast on this train and headed straight for a concrete wall on these teetering rails that can't support the weight of the stories he's telling anymore.

The phone screen falls into sleep mode. Ironic.

Do they know him on there? Do they only like what he's presenting to them? If he took that version of himself away, would they all leave him? Who is _they_ anyway? And why do they matter so much to him?

 _This is just anxiety_ , he tells himself.

Not completely, though. It's not sharp, with the jagged lines that anxiety usually has. It's mellowed out, it's got these smooth edges that he's slipping down, sliding into something deeper and darker with no light up above him.

It's so quiet. _Where are my headphones? Jared. I forgot. Jared has them._

Rattling the prison cell inside his body, it's this one clean and clear voice that is trying to speak to him. Maybe it's the real Evan, trapped inside the careful facade that he has created and built so well around himself. Made himself a little fortress in his own lies and insecurity and now there is no music or walls or people or apps or distractions to hide behind.

Just him.

In the dark with the light on.

Alone.

He can hear his own breathing. He hasn't stopped to listen to that in a long time. It has this shaky, trembling undertone.

Silence.

Stupid, stupid, stupid silence.

The silence exposes him.

Wasn't adolescence meant to be innocent and beautiful?

Evan watches the ceiling fan spin around, trapped in it's rotation. Around, around, around. Under the blankets, his knee bounces agitatedly, ankle going to eject from it's socket if he shakes it any harder.

He hates this body that he's in right now, the one with sweating palms and where something always feels off-centred. The one where he has these thoughts and these feelings and he tells these stories about himself because anything is better than the actual truth. With his words, he can be anybody he wants.

Or at least he thought that.

Now he wonders if he'd rather people know him for who he is versus who he pretends to be when all of the eyes in the room are on him, burning up his skin with their stares.

Maybe not, though. The inspirational Evan Hansen, who always says the right thing, always is kind and always does everything right— isn't that what people want? They see this now and they like it. To be liked, to be wanted and needed and seen is all he's ever wanted.

Now he's got it.

And it has made him vomit in the bathroom almost every morning before school.

He hates how his eyes are hot but refuse to leak out any tears. It hurts that knot in his throat to be on the verge of tears but never commit. His head is full of all of these unpleasant things, these anxious thoughts that chase him down these mental corridors and all he wants is a calm aesthetic back.

An odd thing to have leap into his mind but it suits him in the moment. Soft things. Mild things. Kind touches. Dim lighting and tender words. Like those storybooks where everything is cosy and gentle. Like falling asleep in the back of the car while the parents are driving and everything is in someone else's control and that's okay. It's okay.

Everything has been abrasive lately. Unkind, overwhelming.

Something hits the glass. Evan jolts. It's like nails tapping. Pushing back the curtains, he sees that the sky has taken a page from him and gave way to tears tonight too.

Despite the risk of soaking his windowsill and pillows, he pushes open the window. Cool, damp air hits his cheeks rather harshly but any touch is welcomed, even if it hurts.

Streetlights stare back at him, the occasional car drives down the street, wheels hissing a spray of water. Breathing in the scent of rain, it's heavy in his senses. The sound of rain hits the roof in a drumming sound. It's music, like the music he's been detached from tonight.

Folding his arms across the windowsill, his shoulders and neck hurt from how tense they've been drawn up lately. He's tight, so unbelievably wound up. Nausea twists and curls unsettlingly, his heart is still a trembling racehorse inside of him.

He tries to ignore it.

Almost impossible.

He's too tired to fight it.

Just lets it overwhelm him and wash over him and consume him.

And he's getting so accustomed to it that he can almost fall asleep to it. It's like a second face of himself, one that wears so often now that the line between both faces is growing smudged.

He slips into this half-sleep state, listening to the rain, swallowing his own pulse, breathing in the cool air.

Is this called flight or fight? The urge to run, run far away where no one knows him? Shed this skin and find a new body, a new mind, one that isn't riddled with his own mistakes and stories and lies and imperfections?

He wishes that he could scream. That would help him feel better.

Instead, he just stays in the silence.

The silence hurts.

The silences forces him to feel what he has been avoiding.

Self-preservation is a powerful influence.

It's like the snap of fingers.

Or lights being switched on.

Sometimes it increases or decreases like the sheets of rain.

Sometimes rattles your ribs until you can't breathe and have to stop to listen to it.

It's all of those things at once in his mind.

And he knows he must speak. If he wants to keep living with any quality of life, he must get rid of some part of himself that is trying to put chains around his ankles and tie him to the ground.

Speak. Speak his truth. It's the only one he's got.

Is it worth it?

In some ways it may not be. No.

But it's better to speak than to be swallowed by the silence and the lies.

Seeing slits of morning sunlight hit the floor would not inspire dread anymore. He could close his eyes and quiet the racing thoughts in his head. He could breathe again.

He could sit in silence again and not fear it.

Speak.

Say something. Say anything. Say everything.

Say the truth.


	17. for you (part 2 of dear us) {Evan x Zoe}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛Not sending this because my handwriting is a mess and if this letter even leaves my room I’ll never forgive myself.
> 
> So we kiss sometimes. And then we remember things...❜

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So this one-shot is a part two to another one shot _dear us _. I got a lot of requests to continue the story, so here is another part. I hope you like it! Please be sure to read that one-shot first before you read this one, so you’ll be able to follow what happened. _dear us _is on chapter 13 in this one-shot collection <3____
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _  
> _  
> _Thank you so much for your support with my fics. It means the world to me, truly. Thank you <3_  
>  _  
>  _  
>  _

For Her,

  
Not sending this because my handwriting is a mess and if this letter even leaves my room I’ll never forgive myself.  
So we kiss sometimes. And then we remember things and it twists from heavenly to hellish in seconds. I call her when I’m exhausted, we kiss when it’s late— never early. Late means that we can use it as an excuse the next day.  
‘It was late and I was tired.’  
Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
Stupid of me to think this would work the second time around. I don’t rebound well, from change, a cold, pressure or relationships.  
I wish I could get rid of all those letters we’ve sent each other, especially the ones we wrote in that eager first rush when we got back together. It’s terrifying, knowing that pieces of my heart are just lying around in someone’s bedroom. Zoe might throw them out. I hope to god she does. Having those letters is like having the whole world watching me.  
‘It’s just Zoe,’ Mom said dismissively when I vaguely told her about this. Kept it vague. There’s a lot of things I ask Mom without asking her. I wasn’t inclined to lunge into the details of our relationship.  
Yes, but Zoe is the whole world and right now, she’s got me and all my pieces and to let someone else have that control is more than I’m accustomed to.  
I feel like I’m somehow going to get hurt. Not her fault, mine. I’m going to make a mistake, I know it.

-Evan

—

For Him,

Together again.  
Maybe.  
We all can be scared.  
I don’t know if I miss him or I miss skin. A hand to hold. Companionship. One second, it’s all about him, the next second, I would rather be alone.  
I’ve tried writing songs. Writer’s block is crushing me right now. It’s one thing to have an idea of what to say and not know how to say it, it’s another to have no idea where to begin. No point of reference.  
The leaf could be a point of reference but that’s fragile ground.  
I remember when Evan gave me that leaf. It was a rush in the school hallway; in the flow of students, we gravitated into contact, a quick exchange of hellos, he thrust this leaf into my palm and disappeared. I keep writing that down because I don’t want to forget this memory, the push-pull of the crowd, how one of us exhaled sharply as the other breathed in, our slight rotation around each other. Like a spaceship circling Earth, trying to make contact.  
We were.  
The thing is, even once there’s radio contact, there’s a lot of space in between.

-Zoe

—

For Her,

I love her and that’s the problem.  
Sounds like the title of my autobiography.  
There was a party tonight, one of the last ones before winter break. We went and I don’t know if it was as a couple or not. We physically went together. I don’t know what that even means. She drove, the passenger door handle still doesn’t work on her car and I really have missed that.  
I hate parties and she isn’t the biggest fan. The moment we arrived, two kids were arguing in the driveway and the girl told him to never to see her again and I spotted them making out later. They were weird. Inside, there were some kids playing guitar really badly and extremely drunk and instead of singing, they kept mumbling into the microphone about the glories of the bread rolls in the kitchen. That was weird. Then Zoe and I went to hide in the kitchen, where we walked into the middle of a heated dispute about something— I don’t know what it was because the topics leapt around and they seemed to be arguing for the sake of being mad. It might have been about a tv show turning into a movie saga but it might have been about the pizza order. It was all very weird.  
So we made the executive choice to go home but we were one of the few people with a car, so all the kids without a ride home went with us. It was past midnight when we dropped them all off. I think it’s a little past two now and even after a shower, I still smell like the punch the one kid spilled all over me.  
What mattered was the drive home when it was quiet. Zoe turned off the radio and we sat in silence. It was so unbearable that it made me want to roll out of the car. The silences between us never used to be so uncomfortable. They used to be relaxed. She was about to get half-moons in her seat cushions from my nails digging in, when she finally broke the silence.  
“I want a milkshake,” she said.  
So we got milkshakes. She pulled through the drive-through and said that we would like milkshakes. It’s things like that that make that one nerve in my chest twist. So many people forget how much those two letters can mean.  
‘We’.  
What I really, really want to know is what she thought of the second part of our night.

-Evan

 

—

For Her,

The first few hours didn’t matter. Nothing mattered until around midnight. On second thought, maybe those pointless, sweaty hours at the party did matter because if they hadn’t happened, maybe we wouldn’t have been thirsty for milkshakes.  
I drank my milkshake quietly. I know he hates silence and I do too but sometimes he needs it. He needs to learn when to speak for himself, not have everyone break the silence for him.  
Finally, as we stared at the big, brightly burning sign to the drive-through, he murmured, “Did you keep the letters?”  
“Yours?”  
“Yes.”  
“Did you keep mine?” I asked.  
He stalled. “Why?”  
“Why ask me?” I swirled the straw.  
“I don’t know.”  
“You say that a lot,” I observed.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“It wasn’t criticism,” I tell him, “It’s okay to not know and it’s okay to not know what you don’t know.”  
“I don’t know,” he said, “about me.”  
I listened.  
“I don’t know,” he said, “about us.”  
I listened.  
Then it was my turn.  
“It’s okay,” I said, “to not know everything yet.”  
And we fell back into the silence only it didn’t hurt anymore. It was comfortable.  
Then, Evan simply replied to a question that had long drifted away: “Yeah, I kept your letters.”

-Zoe

—

For Her,

Nothing is resolved but something between us broke because now I can breathe around her again.  
That block we have wedged between us is not insurmountable.

-Evan

—

For Her,

We laugh a lot more lately. Less stolen kisses and rushed goodbyes, more conversations and smiles.  
There’s something warm inside of me lately. It’s winter but I’m not cold.

-Zoe

—

For Her,

I’m going to screw this up.  
It was fine when it was just a grey question mark. Now we’re smiling. We’re happy. That usually has a catch for me.  
I think the catch is this lingering worry of, ‘why is this time different?’  
There’s so many reasons. So many reasons. We’re on totally different levels than we used to be. Different places, better places for both of us. But that doesn’t get rid of the thought. I don’t deserve her and every smile from her I internalise as something to be guilty about.  
I just want to be around her all the time but I don’t want to have to think about everything else that it means.  
Maybe there’s still time for her to just throw out the letters and forget the name Evan Hansen completely.

-Evan

—

For Him,

He’s started avoiding me. I’m not imagining it. When I suggest we get together, he gets a certain look; pupils blown, lips parted, scrounging for words and quick explanations.  
He always was a bad liar. I couldn’t see it at first but now that I know him, I know his genuine reactions and expressions. I can tell the difference.

-Zoe

—

For Her,

This relationship, the second attempt, is just the leftovers of the one we attempted before.  
I say this to myself while I brush my teeth, while I shower, while I eat, while I walk to school.  
I’m scared.  
It’s pretty simple. Nothing poetic or fancy about it. That’s why I’m doing this.

-Evan

—

For Him,

I’ve had a lot more time since he’s started avoiding me. He’s completely skittish, like a kitten who is seeing the big bad world for the first time. So I let the air breathe. Pushing things isn’t my style.  
I still can’t write. Inspiration has completely drained from my head. There is nothing worse than having the burning desire to write lyrics but every time I try, I am met by a concrete wall. My mind keeps slamming doors in my face; it’s getting too loud and jarring.  
I keep trying. It’s all I can do. Lyrics are too important for me to just give up on. So I scribble them out, even when they look worse on the page than they sound in my head. I keep my head down and keep writing.  
Something might surface. Something with meaning. Who knows?  
I wonder what some descriptive words for scarlet are? Only the leaf isn’t truly scarlet anymore; it’s growing rusty. The faded rusty colour is so vivid that when I touch it I am afraid that I might get cut on it. Though, it’s always soft...

-Zoe

—

For Her,

She said, “I wrote a song.”  
I said, “Zoe, you climbed a tree.”  
“I didn’t want to wake your mom,” she explains. Her one leg swung over the windowsill, other foot hitting the floor. I took her hand. It was covered in little doodles. She can’t be trusted around pens. She always draws on herself. I love it.  
“That’s great,” I told her and I meant it with every cell in my body. Zoe thrives in the writing process. Once the pen hits the paper, she flies.  
“Read it?”  
So I did.  
I don’t know if I can really write down what I felt when I saw her familiar handwriting and what it had to say. That’s okay. I don’t have to know what to say. She said it’s okay not to always know.  
Our leaf.  
“Zoe, this means something,” I quietly said, “Your writing means something so special.”  
“Thank you,” she breathed.  
“I’m going to screw this up,” I stammered, handing back the notebook. It’s off-topic but perhaps not entirely. There’s some invisible line between the two. I tug on the line.  
Shut the cover, ran her thumb over the metal spiral binding. “We’re not doomed to fail, you know.”  
“I’ve always kind of been glass-half-empty, I guess.”  
“Me too,” she said, then smiled. “If we combine the glasses...”  
“That does make a whole glass of water,” I agreed.

-Evan

—

For Him,

The spaceship is landing on Earth.

-Zoe


	18. collide {Evan x Zoe}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛...they were geodes; crack through the nerves and they were iridescent.❜
> 
> aka, the one where they’re all in a band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, lovelies! It’s been far, far too long since I’ve updated. Thank you all for being so patient and supportive <3
> 
> I had this idea requested and in my queue for a long while but due to writers block and general lack of inspiration, I only decided to start working on it recently. This is one of my longer one shots and I’m excited to share this Band!AU fic with you, because music means so much to me. I actually never came up with a name for their band, so if you have any suggestions, comment below! :) I also want to mention that in this AU, all the characters are in their early twenties.
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for the comments and kudos. It means so much to me. Much love and happy reading! Xx

It’s hard to believe that they were performing in hot, cramped clubs and bars just two years before.

It’s hard to believe that it’s already been two years.

Serendipity, that’s what Zoe called it. A label manager just happened to wander into the bar for a drink that night they were having a great set. He spoke to them afterward.

“So who is best at what?” He wanted to know.

“Evan and Zoe sing,” Alana had explained, “Jared is the drummer. Zoe also plays guitar, her brother Connor is bass guitar. I do the keyboard and piano. We all do backing vocals and harmonies.”

He was surprised by how swiftly she was able to announce their roles. There was an edge of professionalism that he noted in that; he liked it immediately. They took it seriously.

Were they award winning? No. Not yet.

 _Yet_. He gave them his card.

—

The first show they did after being signed onto the label was the most terrifying thing that they’d ever done as a band. Evan didn’t eat the entire day, looking like a ghastly pale ghost. Zoe paced; hummed, rocked back and forth when she sat down. Alana triple checked everything; the stage, the set list, the instruments. This kept her occupied. Folding his long legs up to his chest, Connor fell asleep on the sofa to shut them all out for a while. Jared was the only one who put on a pretence of being unimpressed.

They didn’t need to worry. They were geodes; crack through the nerves and they were iridescent.

It was an incomparable adrenaline rush the moment they stopped offstage afterward. An overwhelming feeling that they’ve never repeated but felt again and again in more matured, wise ways. They’ve known how to handle it better.

That night, they did not. It was paralysing and exhilarating. As soon as they stepped offstage, Zoe threw her arms around Evan’s neck. They were sweating and parched and her hands trembled as she cupped his face and quickly placed an excited kiss on his cheek.

“We made so many mistakes,” Alana bemoaned, leaning against the concrete wall with so much force that she nearly collapsed, but there was a hint of a smile. She was as close as Alana gets to satisfied.

“Who cares? We were magnificent.” Zoe didn’t need the lights from the stage to glow.

  
—

“It’s nice to have you home again,” Heidi remarks, running her fingers through Evan’s hair as she walks by to the kitchen sink.

“I wasn’t gone that long,” he mildly points out. Perhaps as a courtesy to himself, to alleviate any feelings of guilt.

“Two weeks felt long.” She pours a cup of coffee. Evan takes a sip of his own. Coffee has been something that he has learned to befriend on the road; he used to despise it. It made him too shaky to even sing. Over the course of the past year, late nights and early mornings began to be too abrasive and Connor, who’s true love is coffee first and a human beings second, suggested in his uniquely tactful way that Evan suck it up and get used to it.

The advice, however briskly spoken, still was applicable.

He has also had to learn how to suck it up and get used to not showering on a regular schedule, not sleeping in his own bed.

He’s learning not to mind so much.

“The East coast tour has been fun,” Evan continues, “The people are nice.”

Heidi finally asks a question about the tour. A rarity. Her questions usually consist of asking when he’s coming home and if he’s okay. “Do a lot of people come?”

Pleasantly surprised, Evan nods. “Yeah.”

“Look at you, making it big,” she says, and he wonders how much of this is tainted by resignation.

Heidi was supportive of him in the general sense, when he told her what he wanted to do with his life. She was never going to say no. She always said that she wanted to be a parent to him that he wouldn’t despise years later.

When he told her that he was going to be in the band and he asked her if she was okay with it, she just had said, “Sure. I don’t want a ten minute segment of the music documentary dedicated to how much I held you back.”

They had a plan before the band panned out, one that she and even Evan had expected that they’d keep. Music had been a hobby until the record label appeared into their lives. The plan was a little more regular, a nine-to-five that she could count on seeing him every single day with.

 _She thinks she’s the only one having a hard time_ , Evan thinks, slightly more bitter than he should be. Her feelings are as justifiable as his. It’s a delicate balance and they’re treading on indelicate territory.

“We’re just doing what we want to do,” Evan replies to her, swallowing down the last sip of coffee.

“And you’re being careful?”

“With what?”

“Resting, of course. You get overwhelmed sometimes and I don’t want—“

“Mom,” Evan interjects, “I’m a grown up. I can take care of myself. And I’m not alone. I have my bandmates.”

“I just don’t want them to push you too hard,” she protests.

Standing by the window, pale morning sunlight spills into her blonde hair, giving her an angelic halo. The sun illuminates her features, all of which are now tense with worry. His lungs deflate and so does his irritation.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he says, quieter now before adding, “I love you.”

“I love you too, kiddo, that’s why I sometimes have to say things I know you won’t like to hear.”

This conversation stays in Evan’s head the rest of the day. Despite the itching desire to call one of his bandmates to write now, he spends the rest of the time off with Heidi, hoping that it’ll abate her fears and stress about him.

If the rest of the world and the band is the sky, home is where he can land. He can come home a long weekend of performing and know his mother will be there for him, for better or for worse; she doesn’t know how much he values that.

Backstage at the first concert after the break, he consults Connor on the subject.

“I want to thank her so I thought that we could write something for the next EP or album.”

“That’s not a totally awful idea,” Connor allows, biting on the plastic tip of his coffee stirrer. Reclining on the chair across from Evan, he swings a leg over the arm. “What else have you got?”

“Hmm?”

“For the song?”

“Oh. Well, that’s where I thought, maybe, if you want, you could help me figure out what to say.”

Connor’s blunt approach to lyricism was helpful; it got Evan out of his own head when he needed it. Connor often would, during rehearsals, quietly volunteer, “Evan, no one knows what that means.” Which was a sign to be more concise.

And each of them have their own songwriting method. Jared likes anything that allowed him to bang on the drums extra dramatically, so he gravitates toward writing long, fast songs. Alana likes mellow pieces that allow her to showcase her harmonies and piano skills. Zoe has prefers to write sincere, thoughtful lyrics that have more symbolism and metaphors than meet the eye. A stark contrast to Connor, who selects grittier, rougher words, cutting through everything almost abrasively to the core moral or theme of the song. And Evan, he writes castles, places, worlds, people, faces and emotions that sometimes are so confusing and colliding together so much that it’s almost too complicated to follow.

Connor considers the offer before nodding. “Sure. Why not. If you could tell her something, through this glass, what would it be?”

“What’s that mean?”

“I use that expression when I want to be totally honest in a song but not give too much away. So you can tell her things in the song that maybe you wouldn’t be comfortable saying directly to her in real life. The song is the glass between you both. A barrier.” Connor gestures with the stirrer before chewing on it again.

“Interesting. I like that.” Subconsciously, Evan mirrors Connor’s biting motion, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin of his lower lip. He considers what Conner says for a while and there is no rush to answer anyway.

After several minutes of silence, with his eyes trained on the ceiling tiles above them Evan continues, “Something I’ve never really told her is that I’ve wanted to give up on a lot of things but for her, I keep going. For her, I do almost everything. Even when things were so bad, I couldn’t bear to hurt her by giving up. And looking back, I’m grateful. In a lot of ways.”

A shift. Connor heard the significance where most would overlook it. “I see,” is Connor’s only reply for a long moment.

Evan’s eyes abandon the ceiling tiles. Connor’s features are still, introspective. Connor adds, “It’ll be good.”

“Really?”

A nod. On Connor’s lips is a trace of a smile that lodges something akin to hope, but even closer to reassurance, in Evan’s chest.

Connor repeats, “It’ll be good.”

—

It’s good.

And he can tell her things through that lens that he might be afraid to tell her face to face.

When they release it on the next EP, her reaction is the only one that matters.

He doesn’t know how much of the lens she sees through, but the song is enough for her to begin to quiet her constant stress about him. Now she’s with him, every venue, every show. He has her in his head, and the whole audience sings it right back to him.

She says that she’s thinking about coming to see one of their shows, next time they’re close. It’s been a while.

She might even have to fight for the front row now.

—

“That sucked.” Jared critically shifts from behind the drums.

“Very constructive criticism, J,” Alana retorts.

The EP was a success; they put their hearts on their sleeves with that one, particularly regarding their emotions with their families. It’s hard to stay on a creative high; they’re tired. It’s been a rush, a whirlwind of tours and people and writing.

And now the label is pressuring a full album.

“I’m not putting out anything less than great,” Alana continues.

“You won’t be, because this isn’t just about you,” Jared responds.

Alana laughs shortly. “Please! I do most of the work.”

“Yeah, I’m going to disagree with you on that one,” Connor intercepts. His forefinger strums his bass a moment, a throaty, low hum. “I’ve been doing all the writing lately.”

“So have I!” Zoe’s stare at her brother is icy.

“At least it’s not Evan doing much writing,” Jared says, “now we actually know what we’re saying.”

“Hey,” Evan looks up.

Jared shrugs loosely. _See if I care what you think_ , the gesture says plainly.

Zoe looks at Evan from across the studio, gauging to see if he’s hurt by this. Some part of him is, another part of him is getting accustomed to these kinds of comments by Jared.

“At least I can write,” Evan suddenly adds, “You just write ‘girl’ and ‘hot’ and ‘babe’ for every single song. You don’t even have a girlfriend, for writing so much about one.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend but I’m not lonely,” Jared shoots back, “Haven’t you noticed?”

If Evan wasn’t so in love with Zoe, he would have noticed the increase of girls and boys that have entered their inner circle.

Connor’s instrument vibrates in the background, a layer behind his words. “Instead of just hooking up with them, why don’t you ask them about music and god forbid, it just might help you learn a few things.”

Tossing the drum sticks on the ground with a resonating clatter, Jared heads for the door.

“Don’t be so dramatic! Where are you going?” Alana calls after him.

“Out!”

“Screw him, we’re fine without him,” Connor says. There is no heat to his words, only a matter-of-fact dryness that conjures up a realistic response to the argument. They’re obligated to keep practicing so they do.

Minus the drums.  
  
Jared is still upset with them at the next show. They can feel it, he’s emanating irritation. The drums are forced to bear the physical manifestation of his anger at them; if there is anything left to them by the time the show is over, Evan would be surprised.

They smile for the audience though.

The audience needs them to.

Evan smiles, even though anxiety is creeping up his throat when he opens his mouth to sing. Having Jared upset with him over such a stupid thing is spiking his tremulous emotions. Evan deals with enough panic just to step onstage; knowing that his one bandmate is actively despising him makes him uncomfortable in his own skin. Stealing a glance at Jared confirms that Jared is still working out his feelings on the drums.

Distract yourself. Breathe. Focus on the audience. They’re happy you’re here.

Mechanically singing, Evan watches Zoe kneel down at the edge of the stage. Pausing her guitar playing a second, she reaches down briefly to touch a crying girl’s hand. Warm, gentle feelings stir in Evan’s heart as he watches her; even as she resumes playing, Zoe still holds eye contact with the girl and stays there, as if playing for her.

Zoe has that kind of resonance with the world.

She’s magical, magnetic and a star.

He wants to write this down. Immortalise her sparkling glow, put it on paper and form it into the right words. He wants the audience to echo it back at concerts, so she can hear how wonderful she truly is and understand the power she has on people.

But right now, he is split between this blissful idea and the painful reality of Jared’s anger.

If it were an isolated incidence, he could understand it.

Only it was the culmination of more than that. Jared’s remarks about Evan’s writing. Evan finally snapping, agitated about Jared’s personal life, that’s been more and more wild. Connor, Alana and Zoe each believing themselves to be doing the most work.

He hasn’t been home in a while either.

After the show, Evan steps into Zoe and Alana’s dressing room. Alana excuses herself.

“I have to go find J,” Alana announces, brushing past Evan in the doorway. “Hopefully he hasn’t run away.”

Pausing her packing, Zoe gazes up at Evan. Perspiration is still making her cheeks shine. She smiles. “Hey. You okay?”

Shutting the door for more privacy, Evan finally confesses, “I’m worried about Jared.”

“Don’t worry about Jared,” Zoe says, calmly. “He won’t be mad at us for long. We just have to compliment his writing next time and it’ll blow over.”

She folds her stage clothes neatly into her bag, sets her hairbrush on top and zips it up. Evan watches her method in quiet reverence. For the first dozen shows, he remembers how they all didn’t know what to pack— they’d either pack far too many things or leave behind important things. It’s a system now. By all accounts, they look as though they know what they’re doing.

“It’s stressful,” Evan says, eventually, “the new album in the works.”

“I agree. I’m creatively drained. I can’t put two words together.” Her finger swipes a stray lock out of her eyes. “It’s frustrating.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to do it? Recreate the same success of the first album album and the EP?”

She muses with a smile, “Now you sound like a critical fan.”

Evan smiles back and lets the subject drop. The quiet saturates the air throughly. Leaning his back against the door, the coldness seeps through the thin fabric of his clothing.

“I saw you talking to that nice girl,” Zoe gradually says, suddenly preoccupied with checking her bag once more, “One of the ones talking with Jared. What’s her name?”

“Rebecca.” He thinks that’s her name. Evan meets so many people on a daily basis that he barely keeps them all in order, however pleasant they are to talk to. He barely can keep track of his bandmates; even now Jared is unaccounted for and Alana is looking for him. He’s fairly sure that Connor is busy kicking a vending machine for what will be their dinner on the road but even Connor likes to vanish from time to time.

“Rebecca,” Zoe sounds out. “She seemed to like you.”

“She did?” Evan is clueless if she was.

Zoe is surprised by how he didn’t notice. “She was.”

Evan isn’t sure how to react. “I’m not...into her, if that’s what you’re asking.” Realising how straightforward he sounds, he back-pedals at once. “She was really, really nice though and I liked talking to her but I don’t think she and I were right for each other. We don’t even live near each other, and we’re touring and everything—“

“—Evan.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t need an explanation. It’s all good, babe.”

“Oh. Ok. Thanks.” Something about her saying a domestic nickname, however causally, makes his heart embarrassingly start palpitating.

Her lips lift. “I was just curious, that’s literally it.”

“Totally, of course.”

“You knew that, I’m sure.” She’s teasing now, with an edge of confidence and mild assuredness that immediately causes the palpitations to resume.

His lips are dry and get no relief when he tries to lick them because his mouth is even drier. “Yeah,” he echoes.

It’s too quiet in here. He’s wallowing in what he’s sure is his own awkwardness and yet, if someone interrupted, he’d be crushed. The hallway is as quiet as the room. Zoe sets her bag on the floor, looks at the clock.

“We don’t head out for another two hours. Are you doing anything?”

“No,” is the instant response. Even if he was, consider it cancelled.

  
—

They had a good time that night.

Hearing about how he wasn’t interested in Rebecca hinted to Zoe that he wasn’t interested in any of the girls that she thought he had been interested in. Perhaps he does like me, she questioned. This encouraged her to bridge the gap even closer. Test the waters.

The performances began to take a shift. She moved closer to him and he reciprocated. Sharing the microphone for most songs was next, not because they had to, but because they wanted to. The audiences ate that up, of course. During press interviews, Zoe deliberately found a place by him. It broke the tension with Evan, too. They were a pair now. Photos. Videos. Concerts. Stage placements.

And then the question:

“Are you two dating?”

It begins.  
  
—

Before one of the final shows of the tour, Zoe proposed backstage, “You know that bridge in Roses? What if you spun me around or something? We never move around much during that song and it might be fun for the audience.”

“Excellent idea,” Evan agreed.

And they did; he clasped her palm and spun her so her long hair twirled around her, glittering.

He found the final words for the song for her that he’d been piecing together.

Evan also wished that everything else in the band fit together as well as the lyrics now fell into place.

Jared turned his aggressiveness into passiveness. Screw the band. Show up late, play very badly when he feels like it. He couldn’t care less and he wants the world to know it.

Connor, he looks as though he just wants to disappear or sleep most of the time. And perfect strangers seem to be his closest acquaintances.

On her part, Alana is now best friends with the label; they love her. She’s always a shining example of professionalism. Connor critically commented that they’ve gotten into her head too much; her one outlet of creativity has now turned into a business deal.

Evan tries to write and keep away from them all, something he never thought he’d do. Zoe gravitates toward him, equally dissatisfied with the melodrama.

They find each other.

—

“Can I stay in your room?” Zoe asks, tiredly.

Immediately opening the door wider to let her in, he nods. Zoe glances around, at Connor’s rumbled clothing on the hotel floor and his notable absence.

Bending forward, she throws some of his clothes into his open suitcase. “Where’s Connor?”

“Out, I guess.”

“If he comes back tonight, we’ll kick him into Alana and I’s room,” Zoe grins. “It’s payment. All I’ve heard tonight is her talking about stats. She said that we’re more likely to break up than grow unpopular. I couldn’t take it anymore.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, a thoughtful expression is on her face. “I’m sorry, I just hated hearing her talk like that. It’s not like what she really is.”

“I understand.” Evan takes his place next to her, as always. Two puzzle pieces that fit together.

“What do you think? Are we going to break up?”

He’s close enough to see the flecks in her eyes, all the details, how the profile of her face looks in the shadow of the lamplight. It’s almost dizzying to be this close to so much beauty; his shallow breathing is also to blame for his spinning head. To balance himself on something, his fingers dig into the mattress. “I don’t want us to.”

Beginning to speak and then stopping, Zoe waits until she finds the right words. He waits. Then she says. “I wouldn’t want to stop writing songs with you.”

“I’d miss you, too.”

Zoe abruptly reaches toward his face, her finger brushing away a loose hair from his eyes. “You need a haircut,” she says, amused.

“I haven’t been able to get one on the road,” Evan protests without much force.

“It’s cute. I like it.” Her hand lingers in his hair, as she begins twisting some of it around her fingertips. A fond smile traces the corner of her lips. “You’ve got such pretty eyes, you know that?”

“Really?” Evan can’t hide his surprise.

“I should write you a song to prove it.”

Tingles down his spine and an erratic pulse are the instant response to this. Zoe doesn’t hand out compliments without meaning them; she is the single most sincere person he has ever known. A compliment from her is a gem to cherish.

Uncertain of his own voice and what he’s saying, hearing himself as if through a microphone or a recording, he says, “I’m trying to write you a song. And I don’t think they’ve made words that properly can describe just how incredible you are.”

She blinks. Looks deeply moved by this. “Evan. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he gently replies.

They’re silent a moment longer. Heat is prickling his skin and there’s a certain rosy flush to her lips and cheeks. She glances past his shoulder for a brief moment before meeting his eyes again with a confident shine in her eyes. He’s seen this before; right after a show she’s proud of. All hot, intense surging emotions under her control and authority. It’s a stunning, powerful look for her.

She straightforwardly asks, without breaking eye contact, “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please.”

—

Their new album is not a success.

For them, that is.

The fans love it. They hear music, notes and lyrics; when the band plays the songs, they hear their arguments, icy silences and general displeasure with the entire ordeal.

In that hotel room last year, in the heat of eager emotions and excitement, Zoe and Evan forgotten how difficult it would be to balance their personal and professional lives afterward. They could no longer leave arguments at the studio; they carried them home.

It’s chicken or the egg; who suffered because of what? Did they suffer because of the album or did the album suffer because of them?

They don’t know and they doubt they’d ever be able to figure that one out.

—

“Stop. Just shut up.” Zoe collapses onto the bed. Rain is slamming against the windows of the motel; a motel, this is really taking them back to their early days of touring. No sooner did they arrive here in Florida when their concert unexpectedly was cancelled from a tropical storm that rolled in, covering them all with it’s thunderous skirts and endless tears. Their previous hotel began flooding, resorting them and all their equipment into the nearest accommodations they could find until the storm passes.

“I’m not done talking,” Evan retorts.

“Well, I am.”

“And this is why nothing gets addressed.” Evan pushes open the curtains to glance up at the storm; rain hits the glass with such violence that he is startled.

Leaning forward, propping herself onto her elbows, Zoe takes offence to this. “Nothing gets addressed? Nothing gets addressed because there’s no point! Nothing ever comes of it! Nothing good ever happens from it. So just leaving it alone and ignoring it has honestly been the only alternative that works.”

“You can’t ignore this!”

“We’ve ignored the band’s problems for almost ten years,” Zoe sarcastically replies, “I think we can keep going. And honestly, maybe breaking up is an okay thing. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing. Because right now, I don’t want to be around you or my brother or anybody else in this band.“

Picking at the paint on the windowsill, Evan feels it gather under his nail. “I don’t want to be around you either or anybody else but we have fans and people that need us. That’s more important.”

“There’s more music in the world than ours! They’ll be okay without us! We got out a few good albums, maybe this is just a sign to stop while we’re ahead. I mean, what about you and me?” Zoe stares, waiting for him to make eye contact. Hoping he will. He doesn’t. So she commands it. “Evan, look at me.”

He complies.

Zoe goes on, “We can’t be together with the band still together. It just doesn’t work. Tried, failed, try again, fail. It’s a cycle. I’m tired, Evan, I’m tired of this cycle. You and me stay together or the band stays together, that’s just how it’s got to be.”

“And it will be less awkward for us to be divorced and still see each other every day? Wouldn’t it be better if we just stayed married and stayed in the band?”

“You’re not seeing my point,” Zoe agitatedly replies.

“Do enlighten me.”

“My point is that at least we wouldn’t be tied together. There’s freedom. I could leave and there would be no strings attached. Nobody else gets hurt.”

Evan picks at the paint a bit longer. He sees it, of course he sees her side. Behind him, Zoe is silent. Aching, hurting silence.

“I love you, Evan.” It’s hard to hear above the rain, but it’s there nonetheless.

“I love you too. I wrote you fifty songs to prove it, babe.”

He turns around, advances toward the bed and sits up and tucks her arms around him. Resting her forehead against his waist, she inhales the scent of his shirt that smells like rain and the outdoors, the car and him. He feels her wedding ring press into his back.

They’re different than before. More mature. More experienced. They know when to acquiesce, take a moment to breathe, still work together despite the differences.

Evan tilts her head back and kisses her because there is no way he cannot. She smiles slightly into it, but there’s an emptiness that he wishes he could breathe back into her body.

There’s nothing that can be done tonight that writing their way out of this hell cannot help with.

“Maybe we should write,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good idea,” she quietly approves, letting go of him. “Try and find the notebook in the mess of luggage.”

There’s a few dots of rain on a few pages, bleeding through some of the ink but they find a blank page.

There’s so much promise in that.

—

The storm is gone by morning; Evan and Zoe would know the hour by hour track of the storm, they never went to sleep. When the rain stopped, they stepped onto cement balcony, into the humid, hazy, cloudy air. Zoe sat down on the thick edge and Evan followed suit. Beside her is where he’s always been.

“That doesn’t flow quite the way I want it to,” Zoe comments, tapping the pencil against the notebook in Evan’s lap, “It’s too choppy.”

“We could change the word to ‘blue’ instead of ‘sapphire.’ It’s shorter and rhymes more concisely.”

“That sounds better, yeah.” She bends forward to make a note.

“This is a good system of writing again. You and me,” Evan murmurs, “Maybe we could use a bit of a hiatus to do this more.”

“A hiatus is a nice idea,” she absently comments.

Some space to breathe, away from the band. Figure things out without the pressure.

Below them, someone is walking their fluffy little dog. It starts barking at the still surging waves; Zoe glances down at it.

“Dogs are cute,” she says.

“They are,” Evan agrees and something about that is promising.

“We should start getting to the arena,” Zoe comments. She stands, stretches her back, looks so bright in her colourful shirt contrasted against the grey sky.

—

Onstage: nerves, adrenaline, excitement, pleasure and cresting waves of inexplicable emotions all collide. He breathes out. Smiles at Zoe, who is always the true star of the show to him.

He takes a moment to look at the faces singing his words back at him.

And he feels love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you liked this fic. If you have a one-shot request, just leave a comment Xx


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